


Courage, My Heart

by DAfan7711



Series: Beyond Circle, Beyond Order [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair Theirin's mother, Brothers, Children, F/M, Family Secrets, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Happy Ending, Mages, Other, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Protective Siblings, Secrets, The Taint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 49,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Prince Duncan Theirin overhears an argument that raises questions about his lineage and reveals a deadly threat to everyone in his family, he flees in the night, dragging Surgeon Georgie along on a hunt for his father’s mother.</p>
<p>Four Fereldans find themselves tangled up in more than one danger. Prince Duncan is second in line for Ferelden’s throne. Surgeon Georgie helps common folk, soldiers, and nobles with more than stitches. Enchanter Alan has helped the King battle the taint in his blood for fourteen years, but that’s not Alan’s biggest secret. And Janelle—all Janelle wanted to do was help her friend Alan by delivering some books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How not to meet a prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Verbal bullying amongst children.

Fourteen years ago . . .

Pain shot up Prince Duncan’s tailbone as he landed on his butt in the brown, dry dust of the Denerim marketplace. He should have seen the punch coming.

_Stupid, stupid boy! What did you think would happen when you corner someone?_

He was no fighter, and no one had ever so much as threatened to slap a ruler over his six-year-old knuckles, so he had no idea what to do next. Could one talk one’s way out of a beating?

Georgie, Healer Evelyn’s assistant, stood over him, fist still clenched, and eyes wide with terrified horror. Perhaps a formal greeting would be best.

“Good afternoon.” He remained seated in the dirt, hoping to defuse the situation before his guards noticed he’d wandered off while they flirted with the pearl merchant’s daughter. “I’m Duncan. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Oi! You, there!” one of Duncan’s guards shouted, and the other kid ran for the city gate.

Duncan sighed in defeat. _One more thing I’ve ruined today._

“Hold, Sergeant!” he called as one of his guards sprinted past him. “Stay with me.”

“You’ve been assaulted, Your Highness,” another said, helping him to his feet. “We should pursue. Perhaps the street rat is an agent of the assassins who wounded the Commander.”

The kid who’d helped save Commander Cullen’s life definitely was not an assassin. Duncan would bet his own life on that. Thank the Maker they hadn’t gotten a good look at Georgie, who apprenticed at the clinic just down the lane.

“No,” Duncan replied as firmly as his mother did when she tolerated no argument. “I need all of you to accompany me back to the fortress. And not one word of this to my parents, sister, or the Guard Captain. Understood?”

“But, Your Highness—”

_“Your word.”_

“We give it, Your Highness.” They bowed deeply and were much more attentive on the walk home.

Duncan avoided the family wing and headed up to Enchanter Stella’s office in the tower. He liked peeking in when Georgie worked with her, mixing potions. Once a week, the healer’s assistant delivered fresh herbs, then stuck around to help. Stella would occasionally say something, but they otherwise worked with only the grind of the pestle, thunk of the herb knife, and clink of potion bottles.

The sight was more fascinating than any of his tutors’ lessons.

Last week he’d snuck another peek when they were cleaning up for the day. Georgie had hugged the Enchanter goodbye with a beatific smile worthy of the Maker’s Golden City.

After months of watching in silence, that smile made him decide.

_I have to introduce myself._

But his mother had entered the hall at just that moment, so he’d slunk away and bided his time until he could orchestrate an outing to the market. Mom had said he had to take guards, but she hadn’t said _which_ guards, so he picked three who seemed distractible when the maids showed up at the practice ring.

It all had gone rather well, until he’d been a completely daft twit and accosted the kid.

_Stupid._

The Enchanter’s door was shut, so Duncan wandered in search of his friend Sam, the former mercenary his sister had saved a few weeks ago. Sam always thought Duncan interesting and funny, not some fool boy.

He was so relieved to find Sam looking at a painting of Great-Grandma Moira that he’d temporarily forgotten why his face hurt.

“She fought the Orlesian occupation, didn’t—Duncan!”

“It’s nothing,” Duncan turned his face so Sam could only see his uninjured side. “I tripped.”

_Please, Maker, oh please don’t let anyone hurt Georgie. I’ll wear this bruise forever if you make it invisible._

“Directly into the right hook of someone slightly taller than you, it looks like. I’d wager a whole week’s rations on it.”

It was harder to convince Sam than the guards not to investigate further. It took a few moments of outright begging.

“It’s my fault . . . they decked me without knowing who I am.” It was half true. Georgie hadn’t known until after the punch landed.

“Where were your guards?”

“ . . . Please, Sam. I don’t want some other kid to die because I was stupid.”

“You promise me no one else has hit or threatened you?” he asked sternly.

“Yes! I’ve never even been spanked when I deserved it.”

“Okay. C’mon, kid. Rule one of head injuries is find something cold so your eye doesn’t swell shut.”

Later that afternoon, Duncan nearly got himself stabbed by some crazy Tevinter prisoner in the courtyard and Mom was so happy he was alive, she never asked about his bruise.

-

_How long must I tolerate their jeers?_

Georgie hurried past the pearl merchant, ignoring the gang of boys who hung around to brag lies and hide under tables to look up ladies’ skirts.

“You can speak any time you wish,” Gran would say, as light and bright as a gorgeous bard. She, Ev, Gorim, and Cullen were the only people safe to talk to.

_If I speak, they will hear me._

“They should hear you,” Gran would answer. “But only make them fear you if you must.”

_They will fear my voice more than my blade, Gran. It’s broken._

In a few years, a broken voice wouldn’t matter so much. Plenty of adults had unique ways of speaking. A scarred voice was a badge of honor among warriors. At age ten, however, a broken voice meant everyone thought you had an incapable mind. It was the only thing Gran didn’t understand.

_When I’m a surgeon, then you can hear me speak. As long as you don’t throw stones or touch me, I will ignore you._

“Come on, speak! You’re no mute. I see you whisper to the Healer and her dwarf.”

That taunt was old.

“They say you dissect bodies and kiss the parts!”

That one, too. Wholly unoriginal.

“What’s a matter, _cock_ stuck in your throat?”

It shouldn’t, but that one stung as much as the first time it had burnt Georgie’s ears.

“Hey,” one of them hissed. “Look who’s coming!” There was a scuffle of boots and bare feet.

A moment later, a new voice popped up within arm’s reach.

“Hey, are you—”

Spinning in place, Georgie swung a right hook out and connected with the speaker, knocking him in the dirt.

_Andraste, save me!_

It was young Prince Duncan, knocked on his tiny little ass, staring up with wide green eyes deep as Dalish forests. Hitting royalty was punishable by death.

“Good afternoon,” he said like a gentleman, only in a higher octave befitting his age. “I’m Duncan. Pleasure to meet you.”

_What the fuck? “Pleasure to meet you?”_

“Oi! You, there!” The guard’s exclamation put an abrupt end to the odd non-conversation.

Georgie sprinted for the city gate, fully expecting a tackle that never came, and slowed to a brisk jog a mile from the city. The plan had been to stay with Ev tonight, but the plan also had not included committing a capital offense just outside Ev’s clinic door.

“A capital offense in the capitol. Bet Gran thought I’d be at least of age before I managed that.”

Georgie reached Gran’s remote cottage just before sundown and entered without knocking.

“Georgie!” Gran threw her arms open for their customary hug, squeezing just a bit tighter than usual.

“Who’d you hit?”

“How—how did you . . .”

“A bard sees everything in the first second. You know this. I could see your hands, dusty breeches, and wild look by the time you had the door half-open.”

She took a step back and placed a kiss over Georgie’s bruised knuckles. “Looks like you got in a solid one. Well done. Come, I’ve got a bag of beans in the ice box that Stella froze for me this afternoon.

“So, who was it?”

“The Prince.”

Gran threw her head back in a delighted laugh. If songbirds were talented enough to blare, that’s what they’d sound like. It might have been fun to hear, if not for the concern that the Royal Guard would burst through the door at any moment.

“It’s not funny, Gran. I have to go into hiding, probably move to Amaranthine or Orlais to finish my medical training.”

“Oh, no, child. Prince Duncan is a gentleman.” How in the blighted hell would Gran know that? “He’d never kiss and tell.”

Georgie’s cheeks and neck flushed. “We didn’t—I _hit_ him. He’s a _kid_.”

“So are you. What’d he do?”

“He . . .” Well, this was embarrassing. “He tried to talk to me.”

“I assume he committed this crime with malicious intent?” Gran raised an eyebrow, still smiling like this was the best joke in Thedas, instead of a life-threatening disaster.

“No! Shit, Maker, I don’t know, Gran. Suddenly, a voice popped up right behind me, and I clocked him.”

Her smile faded. “Know—”

“—your opponent. Andraste’s tits, Gran, yeah, I know. ‘Know your need, know your opponent, know where to hit, know when to leave.’ I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“I’m still proud of you.” Gran pulled the frozen bag of beans from the chest in the corner and laid it over Georgie’s knuckles. “Your first real challenge, and you chose to go straight to the top. I promise you, you won’t have to leave Denerim.”

It was the first time Georgie had doubted one of Gran’s promises, but, like all of Gran’s promises, it was true. In fact, just a few weeks later, the Prince was one of many guests in their garden for a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read Sam’s account of Duncan’s black eye in [Chapter 22](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5728576/chapters/14001571) of Cullen and Ev’s story, Heal My Heart.


	2. Wedded, tutored, dismissed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Verbal bullying toward a student by a teacher (another adult intervenes).

_I’d prefer not to witness this._

Barely a week after moving to Denerim, Enchanter Alan sat on a hard chair in a sunny green yard, behind a tow-headed ten-year-old and white-haired grandmother, witnessing the double-wedding of Commander Rutherford to Healer Evelyn and Ser Rollie to Enchanter Stella.

He was oblivious to the caressing breeze, passing butterflies, and scent of mixed wildflowers on the wooden arbor behind the two couples and their red-headed priest, Divine Victoria. He also didn’t notice how some of the ladies down the row admired the gleam of his short black hair and olive skin in the summer sun.

He was aware enough to appreciate that the afternoon was pleasantly warm instead of scorchingly hot. One more discomfort might very well push him beyond the bounds of politeness.

_This predicament is entirely of my own making._

Alan had stupidly assumed that once Stella got over Connor’s inability to love her back, she would see that she and Alan would be perfect life partners. He’d allowed her the time to find herself—but he’d waited too long and too distantly, and now she married a towering, muscle-bound warrior who knew more about sheep than the classics.

She’d chosen the sword over the scholar.

He scowled on this beautifully sunny day as she wed another.

Alan watched Stella exchange vows with some dark, burly wool-farmer-turned-bodyguard and had no idea how he’d endure the embarrassment of living in the same fortress with her and her husband, working with her, remaining her friend.

Alan had to make this work; the King relied on him as much as the Queen relied on Stella.

 _For Alistair._ He’d come for Alistair and he’d stay for Alistair. Forever, if need be. At whatever cost to himself, Alan would keep the King’s blood taint bearable and hide all the King’s secrets. Alan would kill for Alistair. Not that he’d ever killed anyone before, but he knew he could and would do it without hesitation.

He’d die for him.

Prior to last summer, he’d never thought he’d put his life on the line for anyone, but when he and Stella had taken tea with Healer Evelyn one sunny afternoon, Alan had heard the agony in the King’s life force, even though the mages were at Evelyn’s clinic and Alistair wrapped in his wife’s arms up at the fortress.

He’d spent the last year planning—

Arcanist Dagna elbowed Grand Enchanter Connor, who in turn elbowed Alan, whispering, “Quit scowling or you’ll get us both in trouble.”

Stella’s twin brother, Rane, chuckled behind him, but blessedly said nothing else. Any more childish ribbing from the redhead today and they’d have harsh words unbecoming the venue.

Alan schooled his face into blank politeness. It was the best he could do. He was too tired to pretend anything else.

-

A fortnight later, the Commander and Ev had left with their escort for the Inquisition, the fortress walls soaked up the last of the late-summer warmth, and Enchanter Alan was already quite comfortable in his new routine: breakfast before anyone else rose, solitary time in the library until luncheon (dining with or without the Theirins, Stella, and Ser Rollie), practicum in his own rooms (perhaps followed by an invigorating walk in the King’s gardens), and dinner with the King’s family and Stella and her husband. He met twice weekly with the Prince to informally discuss language and philosophy.

And he met once weekly with Alistair to tame the taint.

His new life was . . . almost comfortable.

He was ready a few minutes early, so he sat in his study to peruse a tome of elven legends and await Prince Duncan. Ten minutes later, he looked up with a frown. It was five-past the hour.

He rose to find his charge.

The minty smell of elfroot drifted down the well-dusted and tidy hall. Surgeon’s Apprentice Georgie must have brought some fresh cuttings up to Enchanter Stella’s tower. It was quite pleasant, actually; reminded him of their times together at the Independent College of Magi.

Two halls down, Alan approached the language tutor’s study. Perhaps Professor Dirk knew where Duncan had gone off to after his Elven lessons.

He paused outside the door. An angry voice hissed within, not loud enough for him to understand the words. He cocked his head. Funny. He could only sense one life force within, a rather whispy and pulsating heartbeat tenacious as thorns. Did the Professor talk to himself?

The voice rose, just enough to be heard through the closed door yet not echo down the vacant halls.

“ _Stupid, foolish, undisciplined boy_ , did you think _I_ would fix it for you?!”

A murmured response. So he wasn’t alone.

“Speak up! Even fools know better than to mumble disrespectfully to their betters, _Your Highness_.” The last phrase dripped with venomous sarcasm.

Alan gasped. The comment was like chain lightning that hit his sternum and between his eyes at the same time. For a brief moment, his vision flashed white and his stomach roiled like firestorm.

No one should talk to a child like that. No one should vocalize such virulence toward any human or animal. Much less a six-year-old _Prince_. The fucker was tormenting Alistair’s _son_.

“You are to conjugate all twelve verbs correctly five-hundred times before tomorrow’s lesson—”

Alan turned the knob and opened the door without knocking.

Dirk looked up. He was scrawny, pale, and bald as a corpse. His black coat and breeches showed no lint, and his black boots shone.

“Good afternoon, Enchanter Alan,” he said professionally. “How may we assist you?”

Playing the Game, ‘eh? Tonight would be the last night Dirk got away with it.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Alan bowed properly to Prince Duncan, who sat at a low table opposite where Dirk stood. He gave Dirk the slightest of nods, “Professor.

“I was running late”—that was an egregious lie, for Alan had never been late in his life—“for my appointment with His Royal Highness and wanted to assure him that I would be ready and at his disposal at the next appointed time.”

“How very courteous of you, Enchanter Alan. Class is dismissed, Your Highness. I will see you tomorrow.”

With precise, measured movements, Prince Duncan collected his books, quills, and parchment, and silently left the room. He didn’t blink or speak. When he passed by, Alan could hear him breathing shallowly, but still couldn’t get a read on his life force. It was instinct, not magic: Duncan had cut himself off from human emotion, effectively shielding himself. It was terrifying to see, especially in a child so young.

Alan closed the door behind him.

“Was there something else, Enchanter Alan?” Dirk remained in-character, speaking as one colleague to another.

Surely the man was not dim. Alan had barged in without knocking. Did Dirk really think he’d not been overheard, or, worse, that Alan wouldn’t challenge him?

“He is a child,” Alan said calmly, though the rage running through his blood was more fiery than any demon.

A flicker of understanding crossed Dirk’s face. He raised his chin, aloof, though he did not raise his voice. “He is an impertinent shite.”

Sparks flew from Alan’s left hand toward the floor. A ball of fire ignited in his right hand still loose at his side. Stella wasn’t the only one adept with offensive spells.

Dirk’s eyes widened and he audibly swallowed, suddenly realizing his precarious position.

_That’s right, you piece of shit: you’d be gone before you could call for help._

“You overstep your bounds, ser,” Alan said politely. “I suggest you retire to your rooms for the night.”

He left the tutor’s study without waiting for a response.

Alan stalked down the empty stone hallway, enjoying the stomp of his leather boots echoing down the hall. Perhaps the sound would make Dirk wet himself. Only fitting. The smell would make others turn their nose up at him.

Once ‘round the corner, Alan resumed his normal, quiet pace. He approached his study and it wouldn’t do to upset the Prince further. Nor would it be good to raise rumors amongst the staff before Alan turned Dirk over to Alistair. One way or another, Duncan would never see, hear, or even smell that vile prick again. No matter how many languages the professor knew, he wasn’t going to talk his way out of this disgrace.

“Ah, Hill,” Alan sighted the King’s Steward in the hall. “I’m glad I found you.”

“How can I be of service, Ser?”

“I’ve an appointment with His Highness, yet it is imperative I report to His Majesty as soon as possible.”

“Shall I send word to your study, Ser, when the King is available for an audience?”

“That would be most helpful. Thank you, Hill.”

The Steward nodded with a half-bow and continued down the hall.

Alan paused outside his study for a moment to clear his mind with three deep breaths. Maker, he was tired. It was his own study, but he knocked twice before entering.

Duncan sat in his usual arm chair to the left of the fireplace, eyes a vacant stare on the closed tome in his lap. Alan’s heart caught in his throat. For the boy not to already be reading . . . in their first three meetings, he’d been so vibrant and inquisitive, gesturing wildly with fingers stained in ink and paper cuts. At the delicate age of six, he already had a lump on his third finger from holding a quill so much.

Manners dictated that he bow and call the Prince by title. That’s not what Duncan needed.

Alan gently closed the door and moved to kneel on the rug a few strides away from Duncan’s chair.

The Prince might not believe it, or comprehend it all until he was a grown man, but someone had to plant the seeds of understanding now, before Dirk’s tyranny had hold of his soul.

“Dirk is wrong, Duncan. You are a brilliant individual. You are a young man who understands much more than most men learn in a lifetime. More importantly, you are a good brother, son, and friend, compassionate and interesting. Your family loves you. Your people love you. You are good.”

Duncan continued to look at his lap, but he was breathing more deeply now. That was a good sign.

“I am sorry it hurts, but I must ask you some questions.”

Duncan nodded. Another good sign.

“Was this the first time he was cruel to you?” He knew the answer, but Duncan needed the chance to tell someone. Someone old enough to do something about it.

Duncan shook his head and whispered, “No.”

“That yellowing bruise you had when we first met—”

Duncan sobbed out a brash laugh. “No, that was from a tumble I took in the market when I snuck away from the guards. The Professor never touched me. You’re sitting closer to me now than he’s ever been. The black eye was my own stupidity, no one else’s.”

Alan let the heavy moment of silence sit briefly, just to be sure Duncan had no more to say.

“Duncan,” he answered gently, “You’re not stupid.”

It was a statement, not a reprimand, and that made all the difference.

The child flung himself off the chair and into Alan’s arms, sending him onto his butt with a grunt. Alan held Alistair’s son while the boy cried. After a few minutes, his tears slowed and he hiccupped, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket as he slid off Alan’s lap to sit on the floor across from him.

“Thank you,” Duncan said thickly, wiping away the last of his tears. “Since Sam left, I don’t have anyone to talk to, except Sera, and she’s so busy all the time.”

Dear Maker, the boy’s only friends were a former mercenary and Duncan’s sister, a young woman almost old enough to be crowned Queen.

“What did Ser Sam say about Dirk?” Alan would not give the treacherous tutor the honor of “Professor.”

“I never told him or Sera.” The Prince’s voice was clearing, becoming more his usual tone. “He was off training with Mom while I was in lessons.” Duncan smiled fondly at the memory, “He freaked out more about my black eye than you did. Then caught the Tevinter trying to kill us, and . . .” He blushed and ducked his head.

“And?”

“I foolishly got too close. The mage tried to stab me and Sam killed him, right there in the courtyard in front of everyone. Dad never got to question him. Because of me.”

Everyone in Denerim knew Ser Sam had eliminated the Tevinter agent, but no account of the tale included a word about the Prince. It was a testament to Alistair’s power and his soldiers' loyalty that the details of the encounter weren’t common knowledge.

“Young man,” Alan chided mildly, “You are not a fool. Nor will you ever become one. I assure you, your parents are not angry with you. None of this was your fault. None of it.

“And I promise you, you’ll never have to face Dirk again unless you want to.” He’d added that last part because Duncan had the right to know he could challenge his tormenter at any time in the future, if the man lived through the night. Alan’s voice hardened, “Dirk is a disgrace. He is a bully and an arse and he is no longer in _your_ employ. He will be gone from his quarters before daybreak, I assure you.”

The Prince giggled and his shield fell, his life force leapt from the darkness, nearly taking Alan’s breath away. He’d felt it before, but not taken much notice, for it was rude to focus on something so intimate without a person’s permission; unless a healer asked him for a consult, he usually kept his talent dormant.

The boisterous King and Princess had flashy gold hair and shining eyes, while the Prince took more after his discreet mother with dark honey hair and deep green eyes. Inside, though—inside, Duncan’s heart beat like bubbling molten gold, sunshine, starshine, and dancing spirits, quick wit, and limitless power.

This, this is what Alistair would feel like if he had never acquired the taint.

Alan’s heart ached for what might have been, but without Alistair’s Warden talents, Thedas would have fallen to the blight. Had he become a Templar instead, Lyrium or Corypheus might have consumed him. Duncan and Sera would never have been born.

No. It was good you couldn’t change the past. Things were much better now.

“So,” Duncan said, eyes lighting in that special way he reserved only for books, “Did you want to continue Genitivi today? His thoughts on the Cult of Andraste differ just a bit from Dad’s.”

“I thought either that or _Tale of the Champion_ , Your Highness.”

Duncan laughed and jumped to his feet. “I didn’t know you had any of Uncle Varric’s books. Shall we discuss how he bastardizes the Chant?”

“If it be amenable to you, Your Highness.”

Duncan laughed gleefully and scampered over to the bookshelf to find the novel. He plunked down in his usual armchair, swinging his feet. “Hawke is rather full of himself in this version. Not much like the real man.”

“You’ve met the Champion, Your Highness?” Alan settled in his own chair on the other side of the fire.

“Oh, yes. He’s a friend of Master Tethras, who is a friend of Mom’s.” He leaned forward with a conspiring whisper, “At the start of the summer, they visited and took us _camping_.” He said “camping” like it was some forbidden foreign extravagance too exotic for the common ear.

Alan smiled. “Sounds decadent, Your Highness.”

“Actually, it was rather uncomfortable to sleep, but the campfire was amazing and I liked peeing in the woods.” He opened the novel and perused the table of contents. “Nobody has to clean your chamber pot afterward.”

Alan couldn’t resist a wide grin. The details children picked up on could be quite telling.

Twenty minutes later, their allotted hour was up and the Prince returned the novel to the shelf, lining it up neatly along the edge by its counterparts.

“Thanks, Enchanter Alan!” He ran off down the hall, past a messenger headed for Alan’s study.

“The King and Queen are in the King’s parlor, Ser, if you would like to follow me.”

When Alan turned to close his study door, he surreptitiously glanced at the front of his deep green enchanter’s robes. The front had dried and the dark color hid Duncan’s salty tears. The Prince had been through enough; if he wanted to tell his parents he’d cried, it was up to him.

The messenger led Alan to the Royal Family wing and knocked on the door of the King’s parlor. Hill opened the door and motioned Alan in. The messenger bowed and left.

Alistair sat beside Queen Margaret on a settee, their hands clasped together in her lap while he whispered something in her ear and her lips twitched in a secretive smile. Red and white carnations stood proudly in a vase on the side table, their gentle scent crossing the room as lightly as a rogue.

“Enchanter Alan, Your Majesties,” Hill announced.

“We can see that, Hill,” Alistair said cheekily, “We were expecting him.”

His wife nudged him with her elbow and pursed her lips. Her eyes were as green and knowing as her son’s. She wore an elbow-length glove of purple ram’s leather on her left hand to hide the Mark in her palm. In Tethras’ stories, the former Inquisitor had worn a glove only on her right hand, leaving her Marked hand free to close Fade rifts. She was called the Herald of Andraste then, a title the common folk still used for her these sixteen peaceful years later.

Alan was one of the few who knew why she hid the Mark now. It was an unstable portal into the Fade, only held in check by the Queen’s tenacity and Stella’s help: as a Dreamer, Stella could enter the Fade with Queen Margaret and battle the demons who wanted the Mark to consume her. It was somewhat similar to how Alan assisted Alistair to keep the taint from overwhelming his life force, except the men didn’t need to enter the Fade and the fight was of a different sort.

Alistair kissed his wife’s cheek and stood, leaving her alone on the settee.

“I’m told you have an urgent report for us.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Alan didn’t bother to glance at the Steward. He was certain Alistair wouldn’t send him from the room. Hill probably knew more about the King and Queen than they knew about themselves. Whatever Alistair decided to do would probably be arranged by the Steward anyway.

“I was distressed this evening to come upon Professor Dirk verbally abusing the Prince with extraordinary ire. It was immediately clear this harassment was an ongoing habit and harmful to your son.”

Alistair’s face flushed red and he clenched his fists. The Queen’s eyes went cold and she rose to stand by her husband, offering him her right hand to hold. He took it and leaned their shoulders together.

“Verbal abuse, you say?” Alistair’s level tone held the promise of red hot pokers and the rack.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Is there evidence of other misconduct?” Alistair asked.

“His Highness says no, Sire.”

“Hill,” the Queen said, “Please post two guards outside Dirk’s rooms and two below his window.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Hill bowed low and left the room.

Alistair turned to his wife. “Margie, our Duncan had a black eye last month.”

“It was a misunderstanding in the marketplace, nothing more,” the Queen said, squeezing his hand. “If Dirk’s done something, he made sure it wasn’t visible. We need to investigate his references further; maybe they were forged.”

Alan reassessed his assumption: Perhaps the Queen knew more than the King and Steward combined.

“Enchanter Alan,” she said, “Please tell us everything you heard and saw, and what your impressions are. I’d also like a written report before you retire for the evening.”

The next half-hour was more painful than it had been to silently hold Duncan’s small, crying form. The shock had worn off and the grim reality settled in Alan’s stomach.

“I want to kill him,” Alistair growled. Technically, it wasn’t a capital offense, but the King could make an exception for far lesser a crime. No Teyrn, Arl, or Bann would challenge him for eliminating Dirk, a vicious little nobody.

“I know, beloved, I do, too. Would that help Duncan, or do more harm?”

The King shook his head, “He’d think the execution his fault. He’s as valiant as his namesake, but with a child’s fears.” His lip trembled and she leaned her head on his shoulder. The moment was more intimate than a kiss, but Alan remained seated across from them. He had not been dismissed.

“Then we banish Dirk from Denerim with no references,” she said. “You shall write Connor, and I Dorian and Leliana, and no one in Thedas will let the sneaky viper tutor their children. I will have him given a horse at dusk and escorted by my personal guard to the city gates. If the wolves don’t find him, he may live his life away from us.”

“Agreed,” Alistair turned and kissed her lips tenderly. Alan averted his gaze.

“Thank you, Enchanter Alan,” Alistair said, drawing his attention again. “You are a friend of Ferelden.”

“I live to serve, Sire.”

“And to torment me at the dinner table,” Alistair grinned and Alan offered a wry smile in return.

“That too, Your Majesty.”

-

Dinner progressed as usual, except the King and Queen mostly chatted with their children and Alan kept his focus on Stella and Rollie. Part-way through the dessert course, Alistair entertained Sera with a raunchy story while Margaret left the room hand-in-hand with Duncan.

The King and Queen had agreed that Margaret would take Duncan to an upper window to watch Dirk’s departure. The Princess would be informed on the morrow, lest she dispense justice on her own this evening; the teen’s warrior heart still had much to learn of patience.

Stella cocked her head when she saw the Queen leave. “What’s up tonight, I wonder?”

He didn’t say anything, but the redhead pinned him with her piercing blue eyes. “Alan,” she whispered, “What are the Queen and Prince up to?”

“Ask me after dinner. The Princess isn’t to know until morning.”

“Fine,” she said sharply and he barely resisted flinching. Despite the difference in their social status, and Stella’s being twelve years older, she and the Princess were best friends. It took a lot to irritate Stella, but once you were there, she showed no mercy. She and Sera had also killed several mercenaries just a few weeks ago. “Meet us in the gardens by the birdbath in ten minutes.”

She rose and bid everyone good night.

“See you later, Alan,” Rollie patted his shoulder farewell with entirely too much force, nearly knocking his face into his chocolate mousse. Really, it wasn’t Alan’s fault that he’d known and befriended the Enchanter first, and practically courted her last summer’s holiday.

“I’m not after your wife’s virtue,” he hissed under his breath, barely containing the urge to add “you lummox.” Name calling would just worsen the situation all around.

Rollie laughed heartily, earning an impatient scowl from his wife, who waited for him in the doorway.

“I know,” he whispered back. “Welcome to the family, Alan.”

What was he to make of that sort of comment? Feeling irritable again, Alan stabbed at his mousse with his spoon. Soon he was done and bade the King and Princess a formal good night.

“Wow, Dad,” the Princess didn’t bother to lower her voice as Alan exited. “You two didn’t argue at all this meal. What’s the special occasion?”

“Cheese season is starting,” Alistair deadpanned and his daughter laughed.

Alan snorted, but he did file that quip away for later use. It was the type of thing Arcanist Dagna would enjoy. Every once in a while he heard something not even Rane had thought of.

Night had fallen. The gravel and stone pathways were dim grey stripes under the pale half moon. Lights from the fortress left a watery impression behind him. The black and white kitchen cat ran past him to pounce after some chirping insect in the undergrowth and was again enveloped in darkness.

He found Stella and Rollie in the gardens, sitting on a stone bench by the birdbath, a lantern sitting on the ground by their feet, its flickering light casting romantic shadows around them. She held his hands much the same way Alistair had held Margie’s just two hours ago. What was it with married people having to constantly grasp at each other?

“So, what the hell is wrong and why the hell can’t Sera know until tomorrow?” Stella demanded before he’d even said hello. She kept her voice down so it didn’t carry through the still evening air.

Alan provided a heavily edited account of what he’d witnessed and explained that Dirk was gone already.

“Dirk’s life force is tenacious, to say the least,” Alan said. “But that’s no indicator of his intentions or trustworthiness. What’s his bloodsong like? Did you ever get a chance to listen?”

Alan could assess the physical, genetic force of life, but that didn’t tell him anything about someone’s motivations or actions. If he wanted insight into hidden personalities or desires, he needed someone who could hear bloodsong. As far as he knew, Stella, Rane, Dagna, and Connor were the only people in the world who could do it.

“Rather dissonant,” Stella shivered and her husband wrapped an arm around her. “Like door hinges that haven’t been oiled in years. I mentioned it in passing to Alistair once, when Dirk took the position a few months ago, but he had been so proper outside the classroom, none of us bothered to look closer. And then we were worried about the attack at the stream, and those hideous mage-binding stones, and assassins.

“That day Ser Sam saved him from the Tevinter . . .”

“Yes?”

“Sera mentioned her brother called himself stupid. I didn’t think anything of it.” She chewed her lip guiltily.

Alan didn’t answer.

“Right in his own home,” she murmured, shivering again, then brightened. “But he’s a resilient boy. He’ll bounce back.”

Alan wanted to hope so. He himself had once been called a “resilient boy.” The thought wasn’t comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam captures the Tevinter agent and saves Prince Duncan in [Chapter 23](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5728576/chapters/14011689) of Cullen and Ev’s story, Heal My Heart.
> 
> Stella and Rollie were attacked by mercenaries wielding mage-binding stones in [Enchant My Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637895/chapters/12983524).


	3. Stitches

Present day . . .

Blast, it hurt. Duncan looked at the blood flowing from the top of his right index finger. The cut ran at an angle between the first and second joint without crossing over either, thank the Maker for small miracles.

_It had to be the hand I write with. Brilliant._

“Please, have mercy, Your Highness,” the merchant fell to his knees behind the table and begged. He was a tidy middle aged man who dusted his wares twice an hour. His stationery was always clean, his quills perfectly sculpted, his ink never gritty. That’s why Duncan had been frequenting his table for the last ten years. Plus, the proprietor loved his daughter and paid both his female employees as well as he paid himself, and he never said anything nasty about his competition.

Duncan liked him. He had no idea why the man was so scared. The only man Dad had ever executed was Loghain back during the fifth Blight, and the only man Mom had ever executed was Erimond, thirty years ago. His parents had even outlawed public flogging in the capitol. He’d never so much as frowned at the man. After ten years of polite conversation, how could the merchant think he would harm him?

“Please rise, David. I’m not going to kill you over a scratch I caused myself.” The gushing cut was from a pearl-handled letter opener he’d impulsively reached for at the same time David had turned the blade to show him its floral etching.

The merchant sprung to his feet and offered a fresh handkerchief from his pocket. Duncan wrapped the fabric tightly around his finger.

“Please, Your Highness, allow me to offer you this blade as a gift for your library.”

“Now, David, I gladly accept your friendship and the gift of your handkerchief,” the merchant’s cheeks turned pink at the words, “but I was planning on purchasing the letter opener. Fealty is all well and good, but I’ll not be responsible for making you and your daughter skip lunches this month.”

“You are too kind, Your Highness.”

“One can never be too kind,” Duncan said cheerily, handing over the exact cost for the letter opener. “Please box it up.”

The merchant did as he requested and Duncan passed the box to the guard who carried his packages. Timmons, his name was, a thin lad of eighteen who happily ate dirt every time Sera shield bashed him in the ring. Plumb and Jax were with him today as well, all fairly capable and average. And distractible, which was Duncan’s primary criteria for a guard: someone more interested in the merchant’s pretty daughter than what exactly the Prince said and did.

“Thank you, David. I will see you next week.”

“On to the healer, then, Prince Duncan?” Jax asked, rubbing his hand over the sunburn on his pale, shaved scalp and gesturing across the marketplace to the little wood house Duncan’s estranged aunt used to live in. That was several owners ago. More recently—if fourteen years could be considered recent—Cullen’s wife, Healer Evelyn, had left to join the Inquisition and sold the house to another Denerim mage.

“To the surgeon’s.”

“But, Your Highness . . .” Plumb was Jax’s first cousin. Both were in their mid-twenties, a few years older than Duncan’s own twenty, yet as impressionable as Timmons. It sometimes made Duncan uncomfortable how much they fawned over him, but it suited his purposes well today.

“We’re going to the surgeon’s.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the three said in unison, overly eager to please.

Duncan suppressed a sigh and led them on a long walk to the surgeons’ clinic, a low, sprawling wood building with wide curtained windows and window boxes bursting with tulips, daffodils, marigolds, and—Georgie’s favorite—petunias.

Jax opened the door to the sunny receiving room and bowed him through. Surgeon Maeve wore a pristine white apron over her tidy brown breeches and crisp linen shirt. The raven-haired beauty carried a basket of elfroot potions.

“Your Highness,” she stopped and bowed. “How may we serve?”

Blessed Andraste, he was sick of all the bowing. Didn’t they get a head rush? One of these days somebody was going to get dizzy and fall on their face.

“Is Surgeon Georgie available? I’ve cut my hand and it doesn’t want to stop bleeding.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Another bow. Gah.

Off the entry, the three exam rooms stood open and empty, curtains wide and brimming with late spring sunshine. Surgeon Maeve went back to the fourth door in the middle of the building and poked her head around the corner.

“Surgeon Georgie, are you available to receive a patient?”

The mumbled reply spurred Duncan’s heartbeat to run faster. He could listen to that voice all day, a scarred, gravely voice uncommon for one so young, fresh, and bright. Then again, he’d be excited if it was like a nightingale’s song, a roaring beast, or a cawing crow—just as long as it belonged to Georgie.

The tow-headed surgeon appeared in the doorway in a uniform matching Maeve’s, but with a cold stare instead of Maeve’s bright smile.

“Your Highness, you honor us with your presence.”

Ouch. Georgie was always a little reserved, but Duncan hadn’t expected this thinly veiled anger. He’d hoped his friend would be pleased to see him.

While Georgie washed up and set out sutures and a sterile needle, Maeve ushered Duncan into an exam room and settled him on a stool. When Georgie sat down on the stool across from him, Maeve sashayed over to chat up the guards.

“What are you doing here, Duncan?” Georgie hissed for his ears only, holding his injured hand over a steel basin and pouring antiseptic over the wound. The warm, strong fingers around his wrist sent a shiver of contentment through his gut. “You don’t need a surgeon. The marketplace healer could have mended you straight away with no fuss.”

“I wanted to see you,” Duncan replied just as quietly. Not that his guards would have noticed anything quieter than a scream. They were busy flirting with Maeve.

Georgie’s hands stilled a moment before drying the cut with gauze and picking up the sterile needle and sutures.

“That’s both ridiculous and dangerous, Your Highness.”

He felt a pang of hurt in the center of his chest.

“Don’t do that. Don’t put class between us. And do you mean dangerous for me to be seen with you, or dangerous for me to leave the confines of the fortress?”

“You’d have been best served by a house call from your local provider.”

Avoiding his keen gaze, Georgie silently stitched him up and handed him a vial of red potion, holding the bottle by the neck so their fingers wouldn’t touch.

“For the swelling,” the tone was professional enough, but Duncan could see fearful anger boiling in Georgie’s eyes. “Though I’m sure your local provider or Enchanter Stella could have supplied it. If it gets infected, _don’t_ come here; go straight to the healer for magic and antibiotics.”

Georgie rose and went into the back room, leaving a surprised Surgeon Maeve alone up front.

“Is there anything else we can do for you, Your Highness?”

_Yes, help me convince Georgie we need not be parted._

“No, thank you, Surgeon Maeve,” he gave her his best imitation of his father’s flirty smile. “Your clinic is deserving of its stellar reputation.”

She bowed him out the door.

-

Georgie furiously scrubbed a steel utensils tray with alcohol and rinsed it with boiling water.

 _You irritating man! Do you not realize everyone_   _now knows you traipsed all the way across Denerim just to see me?_

He probably knew. And didn’t care.

When he wanted to be, bookish Duncan was as audaciously bold as the rest of his family.

Yes, they sometimes chatted at the bookseller. Yes, they sometimes discussed dwarven and elven philosophies on healing after Georgie’s weekly visits with Enchanter Stella at the fortress. Yes, they were contemporaries—at twenty, the Prince was only four years younger. But, by Andraste, they were not, by any stretch of the imagination, social peers.

Scandal could cause as much damage as a blade. Not that the clinic would lose patients—such tantalizing stories might drum up business that would otherwise go elsewhere—but, outside of a Tethras novel, the nobility was merciless when it came to propriety, even if you were the King’s son. Especially if you were the King’s son.

“You’re going to scrub a hole in that tray, me dear,” Maeve leaned a shoulder in the doorway.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“About five minutes. You’ve rinsed it three times.”

“Fuck me,” Georgie muttered, rinsing it again and setting it on a white towel on the table to dry by the others.

“No thanks,” she chuckled, “I’m taken.”

When her clinic partner didn’t answer, she lost her smile and drew up a chair.

“Okay, what the hell’s the matter? Did you argue with your prince?”

“He’s not _my_ prince.”

“Whoa, with a reaction like that, everyone will know he is. Plus, I should tell you, he tipped you three-hundred percent of the bill for today’s services.”

Georgie sighed, banishing the frustration along with the air.

“There’s nothing wrong or special, I was just surprised to have one of the royals interrupt the schedule.”

“Uh-huh,” Maeve folded her hands with an expectant smile. “Tell me more.”

Georgie snorted out a laugh, “There’s nothing to tell. You were here the whole time, soaking up the attention of strapping young guardsmen when you’ve already got a hot pair of legs waiting for you at home. Come on, let’s lock up and take your woman out for a pint.”

“As you wish.” With a resigned sigh, she stood and tucked her chair in. “But, if you do elope with your prince, don’t feel like you have to give notice. Just send me a note letting me know you’re not dead.”

“Elope?!” That had Georgie bending double, laughing hard enough to shed tears. “Not happening.”

As they exited the clinic, a messenger arrived pulling a handcart. “Delivery for Surgeon Georgie!” he announced, pulling a heavy hanging basket from the cart. It was an explosion of trailing petunias in various shades of purple, white, and blue.

Maeve squealed with glee and clapped her hands. “There’s no note, but I know who it’s from!”

“Quiet, you,” Georgie muttered. They were running out of room. If Duncan sent one more hanging basket of trailing flowers . . .

_We’ll just make more room._

“They are lovely, aren’t they?” Georgie trailed a finger along a white petal, then handed the messenger a gold piece for his trouble. “Please hang it along the eaves behind the clinic, between the red and white ones.”


	4. Worry and promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 09-07-16: I've posted images of Alistair's family tree. Embedding the images on this page made them too large to read, so check out these links: The Theirin family tree [before](https://67.media.tumblr.com/fe160fc8ff3d4489d6c80f442f2ac510/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o1_r1_1280.jpg) Courage, My Heart. The Theirin family tree [during](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c4238afd70832ea8df475da34ad7b946/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o2_r1_1280.jpg) Courage, My Heart.

The fidgeting was getting worse: Alan was having trouble hiding it when in the company of others, and he’d given up trying to suppress it when he was alone. It took too much energy.

He impatiently tapped his index finger on Dagna’s latest letter, which lay open on his desk, informing him that she was sending him her best researcher along with the latest batch of books. His personal worries and professional worries were so closely related, it was getting hard to tell them apart.

Keeping Alistair’s Grey Warden taint under control wasn’t a problem, but ensuring everyone thought Alistair’s bloodline pure—untouched by elf or magic—was a concern. Alan had heard the rumor about Alistair’s mother only twice: once during the Inquisition, once the summer before Alan moved to Denerim. Maybe fourteen years of quiet was enough. Perhaps the danger had passed.

The next two generations of Theirins were well-established. Surely no one would dare go after Alistair’s family now.

 _A mage must always be vigilant, especially when entrusted with the truth._ The words danced through Alan’s memory like a tinkling of silver bells across a rain-washed meadow. They should have refreshed him; instead, he became more irritated.

 _Or your version of it, Mother._ He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes with ink-stained fingers. _Was he your greatest secret? Did you not trust me? Am I the last of our line? I can’t tell. My own heartbeat is too loud._

Alan didn’t know if she was alive or dead, but, no matter how much he ached for her love and voice—the two comforts of his childhood—he wasn’t sure he wanted to see her. He wanted to trust her judgment, but she’d proven her judgment faulty in spectacular fashion. Connor said she’d been fragile after the war, startling at every little noise; she’d turned down Connor and Dagna’s offer to join the College and disappeared.

Alone.

She’d left him when he was seventeen, and Alan hadn’t seen her in thirty years. However he felt, wallowing in self-pity wouldn’t solve his current quandary.

He slapped his hand down on the parchment. “I can’t proceed without the reference materials. I just don’t know enough.”

That decided, he tidied his desk and settled into his armchair to the right of the fireplace for a quick pre-dinner nap.

An hour later, he took his place at the King’s right. When he’d arrived fourteen years ago, he’d been confused by the seating arrangements that placed the Queen to Alistair’s left, but by the end of the first meal he’d realized why: Alistair liked to hold Margie’s hand, and her right hand was the gloveless one. For formal affairs she wore two gloves and sat to Alistair’s right.

_If only place settings were our biggest scandal._

Some scandals could be ignored. Others killed people. People you loved.

Alan’s mind spun like a sand storm that scratched the back of his dry eyes inside his skull. He went through the motions of eating. The talk of his ten tablemates drifted in the background.

As usual, Alistair flirted with Margie. To Margie’s left, Brayden and Princess Sera sat on either side of their two-year-old daughter, Culver. Stella and Rollie sat to Sera’s left, and their son Theo entertained Sera and Brayden’s son Curran at the end of the table.

At nine, dark Theo was a year older than blond Curran, but it sometimes seemed like they were twins, always in each other’s pocket and often communicating mischievous plans with a mere glance instead of words. They were nice enough lads, but, blessedly, they were never Alan’s responsibility.

Duncan sat to Alan’s right, across from Culver, occasionally nabbing an orange slice from Sera’s plate and sneaking it onto Culver’s plate. Every time he managed the feat, the little girl grinned and scrunched up her shoulders up in glee.

“You’ve barely said a word all evening, Enchanter Alan,” Alistair sipped from his wine goblet. “Busy contemplating some miraculous arcane discovery?”

“It’s nothing a barbarian such as yourself would understand, Your Majesty,” Alan said out of habit, but he couldn’t put much force behind the words. The only ire he felt was for himself.

Alistair chuckled. “Then I shall strengthen my wits before we meet tomorrow evening.” His wife placed her hand over his to draw his attention. “Yes, my dear?”

“Are you okay, Alan?” Duncan asked in an undertone.

“All will be well, Your Highness,” he plastered on a professional smile that felt more like a grimace.

“Duncan!” Culver pulled her uncle’s attention away and no one tried to draw Alan into conversation for the rest of the meal.

Unable to sit still any longer, he excused himself before the dessert course. Perhaps a brisk walk in the garden would settle his nerves.

-

Bright sunlight shone through Janelle’s window as she packed to leave the College for Denerim. Arcanist Dagna sat on the end of her bed, keeping her company.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me and visit the Queen and kids?”

“Yes, we saw them on First Day, and we’ll see them again this summer. Connor needs to be here this month, and I don’t want to be away from him. It gets harder as we get older.”

“Dagna,” Janelle laughed, “you’re not old.” At first glance, a stranger would mistake the chipper dwarf for a teen. Closer inspection revealed happy crinkles around her eyes and mouth, but she still looked at least twenty years younger than her sixty-one years. At fifty-two, Connor seemed just as fortunate: neither of them appeared older than forty.

“I know,” Dagna said, “it’s just . . . difficult to be apart. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“A day without Connor is incomplete, out of focus. You need each other to be whole.”

“Is that it?” Lost in thought, Dagna smoothed the flowered bedspread with her hand.

“Yes. He feels the same way about you.”

It was true: Connor probably hadn’t ever kissed anyone in his life, yet he only seemed fully alive when he and Dagna were in the same place. Anyone with an ounce of compassion could see that.

“Do you think us foolish?”

“No,” Janelle shook her head. “Never let someone tell you your way of caring is less valid than theirs. If they do, let us know and I’ll have Stella fry them.”

Dagna grinned and jumped up to give her a tight hug, her usual cheeriness bubbling back to the surface. “Let’s get you on the road, so you can make the first inn before dark.”

Twenty minutes later, a trio of guards strapped the last trunk of books to her cart and Janelle hugged Connor and Dagna farewell.

“Give Alan a kiss for me,” Dagna whispered in her ear, “and don’t hurry home.”

Janelle leaned back and narrowed her eyes, “Dagna, don’t meddle.”

“Too late,” Dagna kissed her cheek, ushered her up into the cart, and waved a cheery farewell as the cart pulled away. It was all sugared flowers and pretty rainbows to Dagna.

-

Prince Duncan was certain he had seven minutes, not five, before he had to be downstairs, when his sister interrupted him at his desk.

“C’mon, kid.”

“I’m a man now, Sera,” he said without looking up from his Dalish legends tome, or setting down his quill. _If the Veil was created because Mythal was murdered, how was she trapped by it?_ he wrote in his notes. Dagna was sending more elven materials soon. He was excited to see the Dalish scroll she said claimed Mythal had endured until she was betrayed in the current age, the year his mother had defeated Corypheus. Too bad Stella didn’t read elven; he’d love her take on this author’s Fade descriptions.

“You are, and I’ll call you one when you start taking defense seriously.” It was an old argument, with no heat. “Mom let you off last week because of your stitches, but you’ve healed enough: you won’t tear them out with a little workout today.”

Duncan wrote another few sentences about points he wanted to share with Alan, capped his inkwell, and closed the tome. “I’m ready.” He stood and strapped on his waist belt with dual daggers in their sheaths, a birthday gift from his mother. He’d already changed into his oldest breeches, shirt, jerkin, and leather boots.

Sera didn’t move. “Where’s your shield?”

He suppressed a grimace and pulled his metal kite shield, embossed with the Grey Warden griffon, from the bottom of his armoire. It was the least useful gift his dad had ever given him—because Duncan rarely practiced with it—but a scandalously honorable one he had to keep and cherish because Alistair had rescued it from the field of battle at Ostagar. Duncan’s shield was a lot lighter than the steel shield Sera wore almost everywhere, but an excellent weapon nonetheless.

He didn’t have a sword. He’d use a wooden practice sword from the equipment shed, if his mom insist he train with the shield today.

“Is that _dust_?” his sister asked.

“Maybe,” he hurriedly wiped the shield face with his sleeve. “Let’s go, Mom’s waiting.” He bowed her out the door and followed her into the hall.

“What were you reading?”

“ _Mythal: the Great Protector_.”

“Oh.” If it had been a Tethras novel or Thedosian war history, they’d have something to talk about. “Any good?”

“Like all legends, it’s convoluted and no two accounts are exactly the same, including when she lived and how she died. What did you do after lunch?”

“Tried to convince a two year old to wear a dress. Didn’t you didn’t hear her shrieking? I’d rather face a Bereskarn.”

“You want Culver to wear a dress?”

“No. Gran Trevelyan sent one as a gift and Culver needs to learn how to wear it for at least one hour during Gran’s next visit. It’s a beautiful little lacy monstrosity with a satin lining sewed along the inside so it won’t itch and she won’t fidget. No petticoats or stays or anything.”

“What’s Brayden say?’

Sera scowled. “’Let her wear whatever she wants.’ He also taught her the phrase, ‘instrument of torture.’”

Duncan coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. “Isn’t that what you call them?”

“It’s not funny, Duncan. I’ve minded my mouth since the day she was born. I’ve been so careful to teach her that a princess has to think about people, and clothes, and alliances, as much as impaling dastardly pudding with a knife.”

“She’s two.”

“And twenty times the imp you were at two. Skin-the-bunny and pop-goes-the-fennec diversions didn’t work. Nor did offers of extra dessert and a horseback ride. Telling her she was smart and pretty didn’t work. I tried slipping it on over her head while Brayden read her a book and she bit me— _bit_ me.”

The keep doors were wide open, letting sun and damp spring air fill the front hall. They walked down the steps side by side.

“Did you bite her back?”

Sera blushed. “I tried that once while you and Mom were off visiting Dagna. The result was a two-day tantrum—straight, with no sleep for any of us—and three house calls from the marketplace healer. Dad laughed his arse off.”

“Maybe I could—”

“Oh, no, brother, she already equates you with the Maker himself, so let’s just forget I mentioned this little embarrassment, okay?”

“As you wish.”

“Just watch,” Sera grumbled under her breath, “Gran will show up and Culver will suddenly decide to dress herself in her finest and be a lady, proving her mother incapable.”

Duncan agreed—with the first part, not the part about Sera’s capabilities—but knew better than to say so.

They’d reached the courtyard, where Rollie and Brayden supervised Theo and Curran putting away their practice blades and shields. If Duncan had to practice the shield today, he hoped it would be with Brayden; Sera’s shield bash was brutal.

“Mummy!” Culver raced over from the sparring ring and threw her arms around Sera’s knees. “Gran show-ded me blades!” Queen Margie stood in the middle of the ring in her prowler armor, watching them with a grin.

Sometimes Duncan wondered how he’d been born into this family the only one not fascinated with swordplay and sparring. Then they’d sit down together at the dinner table, or with a book, or by the fire to tell stories, and he’d remember they shared more than a physical resemblance. They loved him as much as he loved them.

“Practice blades?” Sera asked Culver.

“Yes!” she squealed as Sera scooped her up into her arms. “I be good.”

“I was good, my brave princess.”

“Yes, Mum, I was good. I did good.”

“I did well.”

Culver rolled her eyes as expertly as her big brother and pulled a squished daisy from her pocket. “For you.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “Pretty, like you.”

“Thanks, luv,” Sera’s voice thickened. “Let’s go put it in a vase.”

“Yes! I walk!” she squirmed to get down, and Sera expertly set her on her feet before she could fall on her head. Culver paused and yanked on the end of Duncan’s jerkin, pulling him down on one knee to look her in the eye. “Draw me!”

Culver was Duncan’s biggest fan when it came to his ink drawings. Duncan was also the only adult who allowed her unlimited amounts of parchment and ink—only when supervised, of course. He was indulgent, not stupid.

“Tonight, my little dove,” he kissed the tip of his finger and flicked it over the tip of her nose.

“Yes! C’mon, Mum!” and she was off like a shot toward the keep, the future monarch of Ferelden hurrying after her.

Curran and Theo scampered along toward the keep, jumping up and down and side to side around Rollie, who walked steady as a warhorse.

“And then, you’re like, ‘ _Argh!’_ ” Curran gurgled and clutched at his heart, sticking his tongue out.

“Better than squealing like a nug,” Theo said, but he was smiling.

“You’re just—oh, hi, Uncle Duncan—”

“Yeah, hey,” Theo said with a wave as they walked past.

“—sore about the last match—”

“Half a moment, your gran said that was my point . . .”

“Your Highness,” Rollie nodded in Duncan’s direction and flowed toward the keep amongst the whirling tide of boyish energy.

“Hope he can handle it,” Brayden said when his brother-in-law joined him in the ring.

“Handle what?” Duncan asked.

“Making both boys take their baths. It’s like my son channels the spirit of his sister when he’s told to wash his face.”

“Culver hates baths?” Duncan asked.

“Oh, no, she loves them almost as much as mud pies, as long as you add pink bubbles. They can’t be purple bubbles, or green bubbles, or magic bubbles. They must be pink soap bubbles, or the bath is not acceptable. We monitor our stock of pink soap very carefully.

“Is that dust?” he inclined his head toward Duncan’s shield.

“No,” Duncan lied and wiped the edge of the shield along his pants leg. Not that it would matter in five minutes: he and all his equipment would be covered in mud.

“Rollie will be fine,” Margie said. “The boys promised their queen that they’d be cleansed of all battle sweat and stink before dinner.”

“Is that how you manage that, Your Majesty, pull rank?” Brayden’s admiration was clear in his voice.

“Of course. It only works for grandparents, I’m afraid. You and Sera will need to find another method. Let’s start with shields today.” She ducked out of the ring to observe.

Brayden sent him a sympathetic glance and Duncan suppressed a sigh. Just carrying the shield from his room to the ring had tired his arm, but, mother or not, the Herald of Andraste did not allow you to grumble during training. Brayden set his sword on the bench and the two men retrieved wooden practice swords from the equipment shed.

They played the first two rounds aiming for the first “lethal” hit, no knockdowns. As usual, Brayden won the first round. Duncan won the second with a quick strike up along Brayden’s collar.

“Nice one, Your Highness.”

“Thank you.” Duncan’s arm trembled from the shield weight and the hits he’d blocked with it. The stitches in his other hand itched and pulled, but didn’t tear.

“Enough warm up,” Margie said. “Now you’re fighting, not fencing.”

Brayden knocked Duncan in the dirt three times, but Duncan rolled and popped up each time, and Brayden didn’t manage a “killing” blow until his fourth attempt, with Duncan pinned against the fence and their shields locked together.

“I yield.” He wanted to add, “now and forever,” but had a feeling his mom would not think it funny.

“Once more,” she said. “Begin in the middle of the ring.”

Within thirty seconds, Brayden had him flat on his back on the ground with the practice blade at his throat.

“I yield.”

Brayden offered him a hand up.

“Thank you, Brayden,” Margie said, “We’ll see you at dinner.”

“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Brayden bowed to them both, put his practice sword away, sheathed his own blade, and made for the keep.

Duncan stood at attention, awaiting instructions.

“Dual blades.”

With a sigh of relief, Duncan propped his shield against the bench and set down the practice sword. His left arm immediately stopped trembling. He stretched his arms wide laterally and shook out his hands, then joined his mother in the center of the ring.

No matter how often his father and sister insisted sword-and-shield was a balanced form of fighting, it made him feel lop-sided, weighed down on one side, overstretched on the other. Holding a sword made him feel like his arm had grown too long for his body, the blade a thin mutation of himself stretching out into danger, asking to be chopped off.

Daggers, however, felt almost as natural in his hands as a quill and parchment. They felt more accurate and eloquent than a bludgeoning, hewing sword. He’d rather be curled up in front of the fire with a book, but it was comforting to have more in common with his mother than deep honey hair and green eyes, and he’d never decline an opportunity to cross daggers with her.

And she didn’t insist on practice blades, so the grips, weight, and moves were always real.

“Skipping last week made a difference,” she said. “You’re tired and slower. Stretches?”

“Yes, pecs and deltoid against the door jam, trapezius and tricep lifts done, and I’ve lifted objects heavier than a book. Not as diligently as Sera, but I won’t succumb to bent scholar’s spine or pull my back.”

“I never said you would.”

Quicker than a blink, she dropped stealth power and he rolled away, pulling his daggers and circling the ring in a low fighting stance. He sensed her to his right and rolled left, around a straw-filled practice dummy, as she broke cover and hit the empty air less than a blink after he’d left it.

Not breaking her momentum, she rolled after him, coming up with an understrike he parried with both blades, pushing her sideways off her knees. Before she hit the ground, she tucked her arms close to her chest to continue her motion, rolling swiftly sideways across the ring, like a log rolled across a field with dizzying speed.

She sprung to her feet and dropped more powder. This time he didn’t dodge far enough, and though her blade missed him, she got her ankle around his, toppling him backward with his knees scrunched up to his chest. His left hand, tired from the shield, dropped his dagger, which skittered through the mud, out of reach. He caught her right wrist and parried her left dagger before she could rest her blades along his throat, using his feet against her thighs to flip her overhead onto her back.

Quick as a snake, he rolled to his stomach, his right blade rested lightly atop her throat.

“I yield,” she laughed.

They dropped their weapons and sat up, both panting, not ready to extract their butts from the cold spring muck. She leaned her shoulder against his and he wrapped his arm around her waist, bending to plant a kiss on a tiny clean spot on the side of her temple.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She laughed again. “If only Sam had been here to see it.”

“I’ll write him about it.”

She hummed in content agreement, then said quietly, “Duncan, I want you to promise me something.”

Uh oh. He hoped Gran Trevelyan hadn’t found some dowager’s granddaughter to bring along to meet him next visit.

“Anything, Mom.”

“When you go off somewhere, take someone with you. Someone to watch your back.”

That was an easy promise. He didn’t even go to the market without at least three guards.

“I promise.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide with a sadness he didn’t understand. “No matter how urgent the need to flee—you take someone with you.”

He swallowed his discomfort and told her what she needed to hear.

“I promise. I won’t go anywhere alone.”


	5. Positions and pudding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need a visual? Here's my original sketch for tracking who sits where at King Alistair's table:
> 
>  

The Denerim fortress was a beautiful sight. Janelle’s knees felt locked in a seated position and her rump was so tight it would probably deflect an arrow if someone tried to shoot her in the back.

“Thank the Maker,” she said. “Niles, remind me to never again travel so far all at once on a wooden bench.” Other than meal times, sleeping, and the occasional stop to rest the horses, she’d sat on the driver’s bench beside Niles while the other guards rode horseback. A pair of cart horses pulled in front and Niles’ mount followed along on a lead rope behind the cart.

“Yes, mum,” the guard helped her down from her seat. His colleagues, Jasper and Miller, unstrapped her cargo while they chatted with the fortress guards. Stable hands came forward to tend to the horses.

“Janelle, it’s been forever!” Stella ran down the keep steps, her hair a banner of red fire in her wake. She tackled Janelle in a tight hug. Janelle sighed in contentment and closed her eyes, the thrum of Stella’s power washing over her in a breathing cocoon of Fade energy. She knew she’d sleep well tonight.

“Finally, another woman mage to talk to,” Stella looked to the cart. “Ooh! Dagna sent goodies. What’s all this?”

“The research materials Alan requested. Didn’t he tell you I was coming?”

“Casually mentioned it, more like,” Stella waved a hand over one of the trunks and the buckles around it unhooked. She lifted the lid. “Good thing Dagna wrote me, too, or your rooms might not be ready yet.

“Let’s see . . . genealogies, Fereldan history—doesn’t he know all this already?—legends, and Tethras’ latest.”

“There’s also a trunk of old scrolls in elven,” Janelle said.

“Ick, I’ll leave that to you two and Duncan. What else did you—oh, Janelle, is that what I think it is?” Stella reverently ran a finger down the unlabeled spine of a tome covered in lilac ram’s leather.

“Latest edition of _The Lady’s Guide_ , complete with new positions,” Janelle grinned. “There’s stuff in there your husband hasn’t heard of.”

Stella pealed with laughter and wrapped an arm around Janelle’s waist, resting their heads together with a sigh. “I suppose it’s not for Alan.”

“Why, shouldn’t we leave it open, face up on his desk?”

Stella sniggered.

“No, my dear, it’s Dagna’s gift to you, for you and Rollie, an early anniversary gift.” She pulled it out of the box and tucked it under Stella’s arm.

“Thanks, luv,” Stella gave a little sniffle and wiped at her eye with her sleeve. “Enough about men! Other than Sera, Culver, and Margie, I’m surrounded by men.

“Oh, Hill,” a thin man wearing the livery of the King’s Steward stood ready at her side. Janelle hadn’t seen him arrive. “This is Enchanter Janelle, head librarian from the Independent College of Magi.”

“Enchanter Janelle,” Hill bowed. His perfectly coifed hair was thick and white. “Shall I have your luggage brought to your rooms?”

“Thank you. These are mine,” she gestured toward two satchels on the cart’s bench. “And these . . . .” She wasn’t sure what to do about all the materials Dagna had sent.

“Alan’s study is rather full,” Stella said. “Your rooms are across from his—can we put it all in your study?”

She wasn’t sure what to think about staying across the hall from Alan, but it couldn’t be any more awkward than their last days together at the College. “Uh, sure.”

“Hill, please put it all in Enchanter Janelle’s suite.”

“Yes, Enchanter Stella,” he bowed again and a team of footmen came forward to take charge of the luggage. “Enchanter Janelle, the room beside yours is available for your guards, should you wish them close at hand. They would also be welcome in the barracks.”

She blinked in surprise. Did guests really have guards shadow their every step? She’d thought Connor sent them along to protect the books from bandits. She glanced at Niles, who gave a small shrug, letting her decide. Jasper and Miller were engaged in a lively conversation with a set of fortress guards who were on their way out for a night on the town.

“Thank you, Hill, the barracks will suffice. I’ll see you tomorrow, Niles.”

Niles bowed and joined his colleagues.

“Come on,” Stella pulled her toward the keep, “I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“I’ve been here before. Several times.”

“That was ages ago. Maker, have you really not visited since before Theo was born?” Stella paused in the keep’s open doorway. The setting sun ran along her red hair like a molten ribbon of flame. “You’ve not visited since . . .” Her blue eyes widened with understanding and sympathy.

“Let’s start the tour with your office,” Janelle said brightly, and dragged Stella toward the tower.

The last thing she wanted to do was reminisce about how she’d sat beside Stella’s twin brother at Stella’s wedding, in the row behind Alan, watching Alan moon over a bride who wasn’t his.

Stella’s office was clean and orderly, yet a lot more cluttered than Janelle remembered. The potions table was clear, but the book shelves were stuffed, with every shelf filled end-to-end and tomes lying horizontally on top of all the vertical volumes. A tall window let in the setting sun and an ice chest sat along the wall by the door. A door to the left, closed now, led to Stella and Rollie’s bedchamber.

“So, here it is,” Stella swept her arms open to showcase the round stone room. “With twenty years worth of junk crammed in.” She wiggled a worn purple tome off a middle shelf and tried to squeeze the new, thicker volume in its place—it wouldn’t go. She frowned and pulled _Tale of the Champion_ off the shelf, placing it on its side atop books on the next shelf up. “There,” she slid the new book into the wider space, “Do you want the old copy?”

“No thanks. Maybe Princess Sera wants it, or the Queen?”

“They’ve their own. I know,” Stella wiggled her eyebrows. “I’ll give it to Alistair.”

“You wouldn’t. Stella, it’s a _ladies_ guide.”

“I know, I know. I wasn’t serious—He’d probably blush himself to death—I’ll give it to the surgeons. They’ve always got patients who think babies grow on trees or in gardens or some other odd thing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Maeve told me a lady came in thinking kissing gets you pregnant, but her spouse thought that coitus only results in conception if the man speaks a magic word.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, that was my reaction, too,” Stella said. “I sometimes forget not everyone had Dagna as a den mother. Who’s she got running the College library while you’re here? Won’t it fall to dust without you?”

“I’m glad you think I’m indispensible, but there are nineteen other librarians on site right now—only six of us are off on deliveries. My staff can manage without me for a few weeks. Besides, Connor and Dagna are around for the most obscure questions.”

“What—”

A bell chimed in the hall. “That’s dinner,” Stella said. “Hope you remember how to eat a family dinner with royalty.”

“I’ll manage.”

As they stepped into the hall, Alan approached. Janelle’s heart did a traitorous flip-flop in her chest. Since he’d moved to Denerim, they’d exchanged College correspondence and reference materials via courier, but they’d not had a personal conversation since before he left.

His obsidian hair was as thick and sleek as always, now with a thin wave of silver streaked back from his right temple. He was thinner, the few new laugh lines by his eyes and mouth not fitting his drawn expression. His skin, usually a healthy olive hue, now held a yellowing tint, and there were dark purple half-circles under his eyes.

He was still beautiful, but this was not the vibrant scholar and fierce fighter she’d known. Why hadn’t Stella warned her he was ill? Did she not notice? How long had he been like this?

“Good evening,” he said, as if they’d just seen each other yesterday, and leaned over to airbrush a casual kiss on her cheek. His lips were soft, his voice thick and sleepy. He must have been napping. “Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you, Janelle.

“Shall we?” he gestured for the ladies to precede him down the hall and Stella led the way to the King’s family dining hall.

Turns out, dining with royalty was an even scrappier affair than a public tap room full of mages, dwarves, and highwaymen.

At the head of the long, rectangular table, the Queen sat to the King’s left. Along Alistair’s side of the table sat Alan, Janelle, an empty seat, Sera’s son Curran, and Stella’s son Theo. Along the Queen’s side of the table sat Brayden Guerrin, Sera and Brayden’s daughter Culver, Sera, Stella, and Rollie.

“So, Enchanter Janelle, what’s your story?” Princess Sera asked as she cut grapes into quarters for her daughter. While Sera’s hair was gleaming gold, Culver was as dark as Sera’s husband, but in blunt power of personality, she took after her mum.

“No cut!” the two-year-old jabbed an index finger at her plate.

“Yes, cut,” Brayden said, sliding tiny bits of meat off his plate onto Culver’s. “Use your fork to eat. It’s not a sword.”

The child sighed. “Yes, Da.”

“My story, Your Highness?” Janelle looked to Alan for guidance, but he kept his attention focused on his plate. Jerk.

“Where you’re from, what you do. What’s your talent? That kind of thing.”

Culver turned and grabbed her mother’s shoulder with sticky fingers, “Want Duncan.”

“He’s getting his stitches out, sweetie. You’ll see him tomorrow.”

Culver pouted and pointed at Janelle. “Want Duncan!”

“Sorry,” Sera said. “My brother usually sits in your seat.”

“Duncan went to the surgeons’ this late in the day?” Stella asked. “Why not just go to the marketplace healer this afternoon? Or ask Alan or me? We’ve scissors small enough to snip sutures.”

“Duncan kiss Georgie,” Culver announced and the table went silent.

“Did he?” Sera asked Stella, wide-eyed.

“No,” Stella scoffed. “You think Georgie could hide that from me, or Duncan from you? Anyway, you were asking Janelle for her life story.”

“Yes, Janelle,” Alan said sardonically as he buttered a roll, “do tell.”

What the hell was his problem? He’d always been lofty, but never cruel. Confused, she watched him while answering.

“I was born in the Circle, Your Highness. My parents are healers. When I was eight, the Lord Seeker disbanded the circles. Two years later, Connor and Dagna established the College, and I’ve been there ever since.”

“Except when you travel for library business,” Alan said politely, still focused on his food.

“Yes, I’m a librarian. I serve the Independent College of Magi in much the same capacity Dagna held when she joined the Circle.” She looked toward King Alistair. He’d been with the Hero of Ferelden when the Hero petitioned the Circle to take Dagna in, the first dwarf to study magic theory. “She says everything good that’s happened in her life came about because of that.”

Alistair nodded. “My cousin Connor says the same.”

“Are you a healer, too?” Sera asked. “Is that your talent?—Culver, honey, that’s a spoon, not a rapier—Or can you do what Alan and Stella do?”

“Sera,” Stella said, “That’s kind of personal.”

“Sorry, Your Highness, I’m not a healer, nor can I read one’s life force or hear bloodsong. I can spellcast to some extent, but you’d be better off with Alan or Stella at your back, even though Alan is the better scholar.”

“You didn’t answer the middle question,” Alan murmured for her ears only.

She felt his eyes on her. In her peripheral vision, she saw him reach for her hand. Did his hand tremble? She turned to look closer, but he’d clasped his hands in his lap and turned his attention toward the boys at other end of the table. She resisted the urge to touch him; whatever he was dealing with, he seemed to want to handle it alone.

“So, how long have you done the whole mage thing?” Sera asked, extracting the pepper shaker from Culver’s grip. “Curran, no swordplay at the table,” she said without turning to look at her son, who’d just picked up his knife to challenge Stella’s son. Curran set his knife down.

“‘The whole mage thing?’” Stella said. “Really, Sera, that’s more gauche than asking ‘How old are you?’”

“Well?” Sera asked.

The boys picked up their knives again, but Sera remained focused on Janelle.

 “We’re nearing the half-century mark,” Alan said while Janelle contemplated the best way to decline answering the question.

 “You’re closer to fifty than I, Alan,” Janelle said. “Much closer.” She took a bite of her salad and wrinkled her nose; the bland lettuce needed more raspberry dressing.

“Shut it,” Alan grumbled, and Janelle laughed.

Stella tilted her head, brow furrowed. “Since when do say anything so banal, Alan?”

“Apologies. If you’ll all excuse me,” he rose from his seat, “I just remembered a beaker I’ve left too long on the fire. Your Majesties,” He bowed to the King and Queen and left.

“Since when does he forget things?” Stella asked the table at large.

“Well,” Sera said, “You know how it goes as you old people get older.” Stella elbowed her. “But, seriously,” the Princess continued, “I think he’s just been trying to do too much on too little sleep. Scholar or warrior—and he’s both—a body needs proper rest.”

“If that’s the case,” Stella said, “Janelle can help him.”

Janelle coughed around a throat full of lettuce and pushed her salad aside, reaching for her water glass. “Me?”

“Yeah, weren’t you two a thing once?”

All other conversations around the table went quiet. Theo and Curran stared at her, their butter knives frozen in mid-air, locked together and dripping strawberry jam on the white tablecloth.

“Enchanter Alan, have sex with somebody?” Theo asked, making his father frown at him and grunt out some kind of wordless warning with a shake of his head. “Hey, Mum started it,” the boy gestured with his knife toward Stella, flinging a glob of strawberry onto the center of the table.

Janelle stole a glance toward the head of the table. King Alistair watched her, eyes sparkling, a delighted grin on his face as he lounged sideways with his arm over his wife’s shoulders. _Sorry_ , the Queen mouthed sheepishly.

Great, the King of Ferelden was interested in her non-existent love life.

“Um, no.”

“Really?” Stella went on, “Because I always saw you two together.”

“It was work, nothing more. Please pass the pudding.”

The two-year-old stood up on her chair and picked up the pudding dish from the center of the table. Sera took the crystal bowl from her toddler’s hands—“Culver, honey, let Mummy reach that for you”—and passed it over. Her daughter plopped her bottom back in her chair, crossing her arms and glaring. “Just until you’re taller, luv,” Sera said.

“Taller,” Culver smacked her stone mug on the table. “Stronger. Like Da!”

Brayden smoothed a hand over his daughter’s black curls, “Or like Mum, luv.”

The King and Queen looked on with pride. Janelle felt a twinge of loneliness for her own parents. They’d left the College a few days before she did, off to help Inquisition soldiers relocate refugees. No one knew how long before they’d be home. Probably not before she got back to Connor and Dagna herself.

“I’m here for the next few weeks, Arcanist’s orders,” Janelle said. “Do you want any help blending potions?”

Stella quirked an eyebrow, but let the change of topic pass. “Sure, Georgie’s coming over tomorrow and you can help us.”

The potential for sex-talk squashed, the boys went back to their duel and Sera and Brayden tried to wipe gravy off Culver’s squirming form. Alistair leaned in to whisper into Margie’s ear, his gold hair shining in the candlelight. A few hints of silver streaked back from his temples. Instead of older, it made him look the bold warrior king. The look of wonder he held for his queen was more like a young newlywed than a grandparent.

Janelle dragged her eyes away and stirred her spoon through her pudding with disinterest, appetite gone. No one had ever looked at her like that. Not once. Not for a day, a night, or even just a moment she could hold in her heart and remember forever. Once would be enough.

If that once was Alan.

True, she and Alan had never been “a thing,” but that had been Alan’s decision. Unlike Connor, Alan had the capacity to love like that. He just didn’t want it to be her.

“Potion beaker, my arse,” Stella said. “Something else is up.”

“Arse!” Culver sang out and the King laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A typical dinner includes eleven people: King Alistair and Queen Margie (née Trevelyan); Princess Sera and her husband Brayden Guerrin (Teagan’s son) have a son named Curran and a daughter named Culver; Enchanter Stella and her husband Rollie have a son named Theodore (Theo); and Prince Duncan and Enchanter Alan are singles.
> 
> Update 09-07-16: I've posted images of Alistair's family tree. Embedding the images on this page made them too large to read, so check out these links: The Theirin family tree [before](https://67.media.tumblr.com/fe160fc8ff3d4489d6c80f442f2ac510/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o1_r1_1280.jpg) Courage, My Heart. The Theirin family tree [during](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c4238afd70832ea8df475da34ad7b946/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o2_r1_1280.jpg) Courage, My Heart.


	6. Stealthy prince, deadly rumor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for David Gaider’s novel Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne, which details Prince Maric’s fight to kick the occupying Orlesians out of Ferelden. It’s tragic, bloody, and made me like Maric a lot. If you want 402 pages of angst, go ahead and read it, but you can get the essential plot points by reading [the wiki](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Dragon_Age:_The_Stolen_Throne).
> 
> On we go with Prince Duncan’s adventure:

Duncan approached the fortress gate at dusk. No one would stop him. The guards on the battlements wouldn’t look closely at a cloaked figure on the way _out_ ; they just cared about who tried to get _in_. He wasn’t exactly sneaking. He’d told Sera where he was headed.

He pondered his promise to his mom, and decided it didn’t apply to tonight’s excursion. He wasn’t fleeing “off somewhere”; he was making a short trip to see Georgie and would be right back. It was almost full-dark and he wore simple clothes under his hood and cloak. No one would recognize him and he didn’t have much for a pickpocket to pick, certainly not enough to get his throat slit or be held for ransom.

“Going somewhere, Your Highness?” Guard Hill stepped from the shadows. The blonde warrior was as talented with a shield as Sera, but as stealthy and observant as the Herald.

So much for slipping out unnoticed.

“Good evening, Lieutenant. Yes, I’m off to get my stitches removed. Perhaps you and Timmons could escort me.”

“Of course, Your Highness. I’ll collect him.” Her bow was formal, but the sparkle in her eye let him know she knew what he was up to: getting away with as much as he could. Timmons was too distractible to be a good bodyguard, but he was a solid fighter in a brawl, so he made a decent second if Hill led the guard detail.

Duncan fingered one of the blades on his belt, hidden beneath his dark cloak. In the unlikely event of a skirmish, he could defend himself, too.

Two minutes later, Hill and Timmons joined him, wearing dark, nondescript cloaks similar to his own. The three walked out the gate of Denerim’s fortress, headed for the surgeons’.

-

After dinner, Rollie saw the boys to bed and Janelle walked the torch-lit gardens with Stella, catching her up on College news. Circulation numbers were up for the library this year, Connor and Dagna welcomed a delegation of Surfacers this month, and the dessert menu in the dining hall had not changed in all the years Stella had been away.

“Speaking of dessert,” Stella said, “Racine wrote me.” Enchanter Racine worked in the College dining room. “I can’t believe Maxwell thought it a good idea to seduce her in a broom cupboard.” Enchanter Maxwell’s specialty was repairing damaged books. “It’s not like they had to hide it from anybody. All you need these days is consent.”

It had been decades since mages were the prisoners of the Chantry’s Templars—except in Enchanter Vivienne’s new Circle in Val Royeaux. Janelle didn’t understand why any mage would willingly subject themselves to that antiquated system when so many other options were now available, especially since Vivienne’s Circle and Templars weren’t regulated by the Chantry.

Janelle shivered. “Racine thought it romantic.”

“Right,” Stella scoffed. “That’s why the relationship lasted twelve days. Maxwell should stick to tome bindings and leave the female sex alone.”

Stella crossed her arms over her chest, “Let’s go in. I’m freezing.”

They returned to Janelle’s study, propped the door open with a trunk, and inspected the boxes Dagna had sent.

Stella found a velvet bag on top of some Theodosian history tomes. “She sent along some lifeward amulets. What’s she think we’re going to do?”

Janelle shrugged, “You know the Arcanist, all sugar and spice and meddling advice.”

“That she is. And they never give any one person all the pieces to the puzzle.”

Twenty years ago, Connor and Dagna had sent Stella and her twin brother Rane on a mission to investigate demon attacks against the College: The Grand Enchanter and Arcanist had given Stella a magical tome of bedtime stories without telling her its secrets, and had told her two guards about one of the demons, but not given anyone the whole story until later, after Lieutenant Stanley had been kidnapped, the demon defeated, and a new war barely avoided.

“Knock, knock,” Alan stood in the open doorway, his rich voice as strong and gorgeous as Janelle’s memories. Like a dark, potent Orlesian wine, if it had a Fereldan accent. She looked up and her throat tightened, sending a pang of pain down into her chest when she saw his yellowing pallor and tired eyes.

She wanted to wrap her arms around him and drag him down to the marketplace healer, but it wasn’t her place. If anything could be done for him, Stella or the Theirins would have already had him to every healer in Thedas.

“Good evening, Alan!” Stella’s over-bright greeting mirrored the mischievous glint in her eye. “You shouldn’t have missed the dessert course.”

“Stella,” Janelle’s low warning went ignored.

“Alistair was _de-lighted_ to learn more about your relationship with Janelle.”

Alan gave Janelle a questioning glance and she looked away, pulling books from the nearest box and plunking them on her desk.

“And what did she say?” Alan asked Stella.

“Oh, _she_ was very discreet, said it was all business,” Stella paused and licked her plump pink lips with a smile. “I, however, may have let it slip that you spent a lot of time together. The whole table was interested, even the boys.”

Alan’s watery choke of an exclamation snapped Janelle’s attention up again. His horrified expression would have been comical had he been his usual upright self, but it wasn’t fair to tease someone so clearly ill, sleep-deprived, and unable to defend himself.

He cleared his throat, regaining his professional decorum and looking to Stella. “I trust you explained that we are all colleagues at the College, and how the library services various institutions and individuals across Thedas.”

Stella’s fresh grin was quick as lightning, “Speaking of _servicing_ —”

“Alan,” Janelle’s abrupt interruption startled herself as much as her two companions. “Dagna said you’d agreed to translate these elven scrolls?” She patted the top of a closed wooden chest with black brackets.

He blinked in confusion for a moment before saying, “Yes.” He stepped forward, “Yes, I said that.”

“Let’s move this one to your desk, then,” Janelle bent to take one handle and let him take the other. She was used to carting circulating materials around on her own, but it was a good distraction to have him help take it across the hall to his own study. “I see Stella wasn’t exaggerating when she said there’s not room for all the boxes in here. I’ll leave my study unlocked so you can access the other materials at any time.”

“Thank you. I appreciate Dagna sending her best researcher.”

“Oh, Janelle’s the best, all right,” Stella leaned against his door jam and watched them set the crate on a velvet-covered ottoman he pulled up next to his long, straight desk. “No wonder you two were a thing once.”

Janelle didn’t bother to try to dissuade Stella again. Best to let this embarrassing topic run itself out; arguing about it would add fuel to the gossip fire. At least this time Alan appeared ready for the comment.

“I beg your pardon, Stella,” he said with amusement, “but Janelle and I have never been a couple. The thought never crossed our minds.”

Unexpected anger flared under Janelle’s skin. The elite scholar battle mage who could accurately quote thousands of tomes had not bothered to remember her invitation. He thought he knew her mind. Arsehole.

“Alan,” a stranger wouldn’t have noticed her stiffness, but to her friends, it probably sounded like shouting. “I asked you out once and you turned me down. I only make a mistake once. I wasn’t going to end our friendship over it. And I was certainly not going to beg for attention from a man so quick to forget I even asked him.”

Stella was practically drooling over this revelation. Janelle had never told anyone. Perhaps she should have shouted it from the Arcanist’s window for the whole College to hear and gotten over him before he’d left, instead of avoiding visits to Stella for the last fourteen years and avoiding Alan any time he and Stella accompanied the King and Queen on a visit to the College.

Obviously, it wouldn’t have been awkward for Alan; he hadn’t known there’d been anything to feel awkward about.

He stared at her as if she’d hit him with a powerful stunning spell, which was hilarious because her stunning spell was so weak it tickled the recipient instead of freezing them. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told the King that you’d want Stella or Alan at your back in a fight instead of her. The thought made silent, manic laughter roil in her belly, begging to come out. She clamped her control down to snuff out the urge.

“That was years ago,” Janelle waved her hand like it was no big deal. “I’ll finish unpacking the other boxes and see you two tomorrow.”

Janelle returned to her rooms and closed her study door.

Mercifully, Stella didn’t follow.

-

Alan had never before heard Janelle terse. Tired enough for his legs to wobble, mind still reeling from Stella’s joke about him having a “relationship” with Janelle, Alan had been unprepared for Janelle’s angry outburst. On a scale of zero to Firestorm, it was somewhere in the middle; an Energy Barrage maybe.

And he must be on the verge of passing out from exhaustion if he’d started using offensive spells terminology while thinking about his friend.

“Well,” Stella’s satisfied comment reminded him that she was there. “That went better than I’d expected.”

What was she so bloody happy about? Janelle had just given him a verbal evisceration.

“What do you mean?”

“Your blood’s singing for her, Alan. It’s much better than the confused anguish I’ve heard from you lately.” She said it kindly. Stella never joked about bloodsong. Just like he never made jokes about life force.

He frowned, trying to be angry with her, but found that he couldn’t be. “I didn’t ask you to listen.”

“I know,” she rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know.” After a moment, she gave his shoulder a squeeze and asked, “Do you need a sleeping draft?”

“I still have some, thanks.”

“Okay, call to me in the Fade if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Stella.”

She nodded and left him alone in the lonely quiet of his study.

After a moment of thoughtlessly staring at nothing, he entered his adjoining bedroom and closed the door, separating his work space from the sanctuary reserved for resting.

He went about his bedtime routine, washed his hair and face with water from his little porcelain basin to help lower his core temperature, cracked his window to let in cool spring air, banked the fire to darken the room, drank three of Stella’s sleep draughts, and crawled into bed nude. He practiced breathing and laid still, his mind blank.

Two hours later he realized it would be another sleepless night. Alan could manage one, but when he ran two in a row, he couldn’t pretend to function. Tomorrow would be hell.

If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well review the materials Dagna had sent. Alan got up, slipped his clothes back on, and went to build up the fire in his study. He’d focus on the elven scrolls tonight. He didn’t want to wake Janelle by rummaging around in her study while she slept just the other side of the door.

He opened the trunk, expecting Dalish accounts of their gods’ legends mixed in with nomadic clan histories. They never drew anything as simple as a family tree; everything was told through complex stories memorized verbatim and passed on orally by the clan’s Keeper. Writing them down was a relatively new trend and Alan had no idea how Dagna had gotten her hands on copies. Despite what the Hero and Inquisitor had done for them, the Dalish still hated outsiders, especially shemlen.

This kind of research usually took a lot of sifting and cross references to find small kernels of truth. He hoped to find multiple independent references to Maric’s meeting with the Witch of the Wilds—the Dalish had once captured him and turned him over to her—before he’d ousted the Orlesian occupation, and any reference to his interactions with the Grey Wardens.

If the rumor was true—if Alistair’s mother had been an elven mage from Orlais—his family’s life would be forfeit and the Theirin line would end. Yet civil war was the least of Alan’s concerns.

_Alistair. I won’t let you die._

To Alan’s surprise, the first two scrolls directly referenced Maric’s encounter with Flemeth. The accounts didn’t reveal anything new and the accounts mirrored each other, despite their origins from different clans in different years. That was a good sign.

The third elven scroll was an even bigger surprise: an analysis of royal bloodlines in both Ferelden and Orlais. Of course city elves were concerned about King Alistair and Empress Celene’s tolerance of them in recent years, but city elves were not scholars and most knew the trade tongue better than elven. They focused on daily survival and who might purge them.

Why would an elf write such an analysis? Or had a human written it in elven—to what purpose? Where did it come from?

Dagna was not here to ask. She’d packed this box with these three scrolls on top and must have known what he was searching for, though he’d thought himself so careful not to reveal the exact nature of his research to anyone.

He could ask Stella to bring him to Connor in a dream to ask—it would have to be Connor because, as a dwarf, Dagna couldn’t dream—but it was too risky to talk about such a dangerous secret in the Fade, where they might be overheard by demons, or the echo of their conversation lurk for other dreamers to snatch later.

Even if he had a sending crystal—which he didn’t—that could connect his audible voice to someone at the College, he couldn’t risk echoes living on in the crystal for someone to reconstruct in the future.

He could ask Janelle—No, it wasn’t safe. She couldn’t defend herself like Stella could.

He hadn’t even read the analysis yet and his mind raced through worst-case scenarios.

He sighed and rubbed his gritty eyes, “Read the documentation, Alan. Determine its veracity. _Then_ figure out if you need to do something about it.”

The writer’s perfectly legible script was bold and flowing. Unusually concise for elven writing, each entry was only a sentence or two regarding how each monarch’s rule affected the Dalish and the city elves. It was chronological, switching back-and-forth between Orlais and Ferelden.

By the time he reached the paragraph accounting the assassinations of Celene’s parents and the purging of her elven lover’s alienage, Alan was leaning his cheek on his fist, elbow on the desk propping his head up, and eyelids drooping. He caught a bit of drool with the back of his other hand before it could sully the parchment.

_Maybe I’ll sleep after all._

But the next entry jolted him awake:

_Ferelden’s Queen Rowan bore King Maric his heir, Cailan, a friend to all loyal elves. Orlesian bards love their tales of “the randy Fereldan dog,” but, in truth, King Maric had only three lovers in his lifetime. Two bore him sons._

That was it. No specific mention of the Orlesian elf bard and betrayer Katriel. Sons? How many Sons? What about daughters? How many of those lovers were elves? At least the entry didn’t hint that the Theirins were touched with magic.

_I, Tarsian, scribe of Gallus, took this testimony from the Warden herself and attest that it is true._

That was an odd, very human notation for an elven scribe. The names sounded Tevene, not Orlesian or elven. Perhaps the scribe was a slave. No matter how well educated, why would a slave or former slave write a human bloodline analysis?

“ _From the Warden herself._ ”

Fuck. Could he assume the female Warden was an Orlesian elf who’d lost the taint and led the mage rebellion straight into the arms of a Tevinter magister in Redcliffe? Technically, no, because the document didn’t say. Even if it did, the testimony would need to be corroborated with further accounts—

A light double-knock on his bedroom door sent his heart pounding. Did Alistair need him? Alan rushed back into his bedroom to open the door. The sight of a disheveled Janelle in her house slippers and yesterday’s enchanter’s robes, clearly with no breast band or corset beneath, left him speechless.

And wanting. He suddenly wanted to be the reason her hair was mussed and her cheeks flushed.

“I think the Queen is ill. Stella may need us.”

Fear immediately eclipsed his unexpected bout of lust. Alistair’s wife was in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Twenty years ago, Connor and Dagna had sent Stella and her twin brother Rane on a mission to investigate demon attacks against the College”: They face demons, Vivienne, and the magical bedtime stories tome in my story,  
> [The Independent College of Magi](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5172980/chapters/11916428). Lieutenants Stanley and Rachel (a Templar and Seeker) admit their love and fight a demon in  
> [Guard My Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5420012/chapters/12523112).


	7. Diction, demons, and dangerous secrets

The keep was dark and silent when Duncan slipped into his rooms, yet he was unsurprised to find Culver wide awake and waiting in the arm chair by the fire. She wore an ankle-length white nightdress with no robe or slippers.

“You need to draw me a picture, and you owe me orange slices.”

“How do you figure that, my little dove?” He hung his cloak and daggers belt in his armoire.

“You were off snogging Georgie when you were supposed to be with the family at dinner, welcoming Stella’s friend. You should have invited Georgie to sup with us instead. Mum only let me have three orange slices.”

“We weren’t snogging.” Duncan sat to remove his boots and slide them under the bed. “I had my stitches removed.”

The child arched a haughty eyebrow and he squirmed under her scrutiny. “Truly,” he lifted his hand to show the pink line on his finger, sans sutures. “I took two guards with me and joined the surgeons and Maeve’s girlfriend for a pint. That’s it.”

 Culver shook her head. “Really, Duncan, you’re old enough to be my father, but you’re slower than I am.”

“ _I’ve_ never bitten my mother,” he said, barely suppressing a smile.

“She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’m not strong enough yet to flip her over my shoulder, and my teeth were the only weapon I had.”

“Culver, it’s just a dress.”

“I don’t see you wearing one.”

“But Gran—”

“I will don the wretched thing for dinner with Gran Margie’s mother and eat cherry pie. The fabric will be ruined and we won’t have to deal with it again.”

“She’ll just send another.”

“I’ll stain that one, too.”

She primly folded her little hands in her lap and changed the subject, “Tonight I would like to read the next chapter of _Tale of the Champion_. I’d love to write a story like it, but my fingers aren’t dexterous enough yet. My writing is all scratchy scribbles.”

“Who taught you ‘dexterous?’” Last night’s word had been “abomination,” which led her to interrogate him for an hour about mage rights and cousin Connor. At least she hadn’t asked about Kirkwall.

She rolled her eyes. “I only need to hear a word once to know it.”

“How about _Anne the Brave_?” It was Duncan’s favorite bedtime story about a mabari puppy who goes on an adventure to find her very own little girl.

Culver scowled at him, “It’s simple enough for a two-year-old.”

“You are a two-year-old, sweetheart.”

She huffed.

Sweet Andraste, had he been this insufferable as a child? How had his mother not drowned him? Culver batted her eyelashes and he knew how: his already-mushy heart slopped into a puddle at her feet.

Duncan pulled _Tale of the Champion_ from the shelf and handed it over. Culver read it aloud while he drew her profile; the black ink flowing from his quill into a portrait was as easy for him as writing words. Soon he had a detailed illustration of his curly-haired niece, eyes shining as her lips opened to tell a tale. Then he sketched a little dove looking over her shoulder, like the bird listened to her story.

“It’s my bedtime,” Duncan said as Culver took a breath to start the next chapter. He knew better than to suggest that it was her bedtime. She narrowed her eyes, gauging whether he could be talked into another chapter, but then she yawned and he stood. “I’ll see you to your room.”

She raised her arms with a sigh and he picked her up. Culver wrapped her arms around Duncan’s neck and laid her cheek to his shoulder as he walked barefoot down the quiet stone hallway.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you Uncle Duncan?”

“Tell them what, little dove?”

“That my diction is perfect?”

“No, luv, I won’t tell.” He turned his head to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, inhaling the soft scents of baby and bath soap.

“Good,” and she promptly fell asleep on his shoulder.

He tucked her into bed, blew out the candle on the side table, and banked her fire.

On the way back to his room, he heard low voices coming from his dad’s parlor. The door was open an inch, letting a slim strip of firelight cut into the dark hallway. Duncan paused, hand raised to push the door wider, wondering if he should interrupt. Then Alan’s voice came through clearly, along with Alistair’s.

“Your Majesty, what precautions have you taken to safeguard your secret?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Of your heritage.”

-

The soft sheets were warm cream against Janelle’s bare skin. Cozy, thick blankets kept out the spring chill. Her fire was down to embers in the grate.

Dozing on the edge of real sleep, she sensed movement in the hall—a powerful stride pulling anxious fear along behind. A trail of pain.

Suddenly alert, she sprung from bed and yanked on her green enchanter’s robes without donning her underthings and shoved her feet in her house slippers mid-stride on her way out the door. As she exited, she caught a brief, moon-lit glimpse of a figure disappearing around the corner: a woman in a voluminous white nightdress billowing around her ankles as her bare feet made not a sound in the cold stone hallway. Deep honey hair cascaded down just beyond her shoulders. Queen Margaret. She was headed toward the tower in a quiet panic.

The emotional disturbance left invisible waves of discord in the hall, flowing over Janelle like an ice storm, raising goosebumps all over her body.

Janelle tapped lightly on the door across from her own. When Alan answered, he wore a red dressing gown over the robes he’d worn at dinner. His hair looked as if he’d been scrubbing his hands through it. The purple circles under his eyes had deepened.

She wanted to ask him about his own health, but the Queen’s condition felt more urgent.

“I think the Queen is ill. Stella may need us.”

Without a word or backward glance, he stepped to her side and closed the door. He turned toward the family wing.

“She was headed toward the tower.”

Alan turned around and followed Janelle toward the Stella’s tower office.

They silently sprinted up the tower steps. Several yards ahead, the swift-moving Queen appeared as a ghostly figure in the pearly moonlight from the only window in the hall. She stumbled and fell with a grunt.

“Margie!” Alan raced ahead and sat at her side, gently rolling her up to cradle her in his arms. Her left hand was clenched into a fist that barely contained a small cloud of green lightning. The sight, coupled with the energy of Margie’s tumultuous emotions, made Janelle queasy.

“Need. Stella,” Margie grunted out a whisper.

“Yes,” Alan clutched her closer to his chest, “Janelle’s rousing her now.”

When Janelle raised her fist to knock on Stella and Rollie’s bedroom door, Stella opened before she could knock. The Dreamer had pulled on rumpled enchanter’s robes and her husband stood behind in only his breeches, ready to assist.

“We heard you,” Stella swiftly seated herself behind Margie’s head. “Janelle, sit opposite Alan. We’re going to need you to keep us grounded.”

Janelle sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, her knees up against the side of Alan’s outstretched legs while he held the Queen.

“Fucking hurts, Stella,” Margie squeezed her eyes and fist tighter shut. “Shoulda let Ev chop it off, no matter what you and Dagna thought.”

Stella’s lips quirked in a half smile, “Now, that’s—”

“I know: just the pain talking. Fuck,” she flinched. “Don’t think I could swallow down a potion. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Margie!” Alistair was running toward them, shirt untucked, his distressed exclamation more a plea than a shout.

His fear slammed into Janelle and fire joined the nausea in her belly.

The door next to Stella’s opened and Theo stepped out, clad in a knee-length night shirt. He blocked Alistair’s path, gently holding the man’s wrist and placing a palm against his chest. “Don’t break their circle, Sire. You can hold her when they’re done.”

Alistair gripped the child’s shoulder, blinked at him, and looked with desperation to Rollie, who nodded and moved to stand with his son at the King’s side.

“I’ve got you,” Janelle took hold of Stella’s shoulder and laid a hand on Margie’s thigh, not breaking her knees’ contact with Alan’s leg. The touch instantly calmed her stomach and she let the peace flow from her body into theirs.

Janelle was their anchor to the waking world. She’d keep them calm. If they went mad or desperate in the Fade, they’d be easy prey for demons.

Alan’s shoulders relaxed and his eyes looked clearer. “Our mana is yours,” he told Stella.

Stella lay her right hand on Alan’s shoulder and took Margie’s left in her own, pinning the green Mark between their palms. She took three breaths in and out, whispered “Connor,” and went completely still, staring sightlessly into space.

Margie and Alan followed suit, leaving Janelle to watch over them in a half-daze: if she focused on the waking world too much, she’d lose them; if she dove into dreams with them, they’d lose their anchor to the waking world, and likely lose their lives to the demons who wanted the Herald’s Marked hand to consume her life.

“Connor?” Alistair asked Rollie. “They’ve gone to him? Stella can take them there in dreams?”

“Or invite him into their battle, Your Majesty.”

“What if he’s awake?” Alistair’s voice trembled, but Janelle remained focused on circle of humans she touched.

“He can hear Stella’s voice and breathe himself into the Fade, just as she did,” Rollie said.

“But he’s not a Dreamer. He’s raw power . . .”

“Stella is all the Dreamer we need, Sire. She’ll get them there, and they’ll fight the demons as they always do.”

“She’s never needed more than Stella before,” the King’s voice became as small as a child’s. “What are we going to do?”

There was no answer but to wait.

Janelle could feel Margie battle demons with daggers in the Fade, while Stella and Alan cast spells. Then Connor stepped onto the field and half the enemies simply vanished, banished with a wave of his hand.

For twenty minutes Janelle controlled the ebb and flow of power through the circle of their joined bodies while the others fought. If fear rose, she wrapped it in peace; when desperation swirled, she encased it in calm. She was their beacon back to the waking world.

Then Stella pulled them out of the Fade, all three gasping for breath now that their waking bodies felt the exertions they’d just completed.

Janelle smiled, content. It was the first time she’d grounded three people at once and it’d gone beautifully.

Margie smiled at Alistair. “Hey, babe. Rough night?”

Theo and Rollie stepped aside. Laughing through tears, Alistair fell to his knees and took Margie into his arms. The three mages rose and stepped back.

It felt like a dozen doves beat wings inside Janelle’s chest as she watched Alistair and Margie cling to each other. What would it be like to have another as desperate for you as you were for them?

Alistair held Margie’s left hand up and tenderly kissed the pulse along her wrist before wrapping her arms around his neck and burying his face in her shoulder, mumbling, “’Gotta go, I’ll be back?’ That’s all you say when you jump out of bed to fight demons?”

“I was in a hurry, sweetheart. I knew you’d catch up.”

He chuckled and leaned back. “What’s this? You’ve a souvenir.” He ran a hand along her hair, where an inch-wide streak of green ran from her temple to the ends. “A little stripe in your hair, green as the Mark.”

She grinned, “Better than going gray, like you.”

He growled and arduously claimed her mouth with his own, uncaring for the audience, who now included the Steward. Janelle had been so focused on the King and Queen, she hadn’t notice his arrival.

Nine-year-old Theo watched with great amusement and grumbled when Rollie steered him back to his room.

“Thanks,” Stella wrapped an arm around Janelle’s waist and rested the side of her head to Janelle’s. The touch was warm and soothing. “That would have been a lot harder without you.”

Janelle almost jumped out of her skin when Alan smoothed a hand down her hair and back, leaving what felt like a blazing trail of lustful fire down her spine before he dropped his hand back to his side. Where Stella’s touch made her ready to rest, Alan’s touch roused her in ways she hoped weren’t visible on her face.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

She chanced a glance his way. He watched Alistair and Margie with a sweet little smile. Clearly they meant more to him than a job, and she was glad he’d found a long-term position where he could be happy.

When Alistair finally pulled back from the kiss and helped her to her feet, Margie said, “Enchanter Janelle was wrong. I _do_ want her at my back in a fight.”

That had the mages and royals chuckling—the Steward gave a tight-lipped smile. “Tea has been set in the King’s parlor.”

“Thank you, Hill,” Margie said and turned to the mages. “Please join us.”

Midnight tea with the King and Queen in their pajamas was too intimate for Janelle’s comfort. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I’m afraid I must get to bed. I’m tired from my journey.”

When Stella also declined, Margie’s face fell and Janelle felt a little pang. After the terrors of tonight, Margie probably yearned for companionship and conversation. Normal human things.

“Alan, we’ll have your favorite biscuits,” the Queen offered a hesitant smile. “Would you like to join us?”

Alan and Alistair looked about as comfortable as Janelle felt, but Alan bowed and said, “Of course, Your Majesty,” and followed the King and Queen, who walked hand-in-hand back toward the family wing.

When they disappeared down the stairwell, Janelle realized that Stella still stood there, watching her watch them.

“He has missed you,” Stella said gently. “You might want to consider giving him another chance, giving yourself another chance.”

She kissed Janelle’s cheek and left her alone in the hall.

-

Once parted from Janelle’s company, tension crept back into Alan’s shoulders. He’d been up for nearly forty hours. At the thirty-six-hour mark he tended to lose focus and speak rashly. He should have declined Margie’s offer for tea, even if it meant temporarily hurting her feelings.

The King and Queen sat on the settee and Alan settled in an arm chair across from them. The polished coffee table between them was very much Alistair’s style: sleek and sturdy, without any ornate ornamentation.

“Thank you, Hill, that will be all,” the Queen dismissed the Steward and poured tea.

“So, Alan,” she offered him a plate of cookies, “What are you working on now? It looks like Dagna sent you an entire library.”

He thought it best to tell a piece of the truth, so as not to be caught in a lie later. “Dagna asked me to translate some elven scrolls into the common tongue.”

“And the rest of it?” she asked.

“Some histories,” Alan smiled. “And, of course, a few adventure novels to enjoy in the evenings.”

Her wry smile let him know she didn’t buy it.

“Histories, huh?” Alistair asked, “Like so-and-so beget so-and-so, and his third cousin twice removed beheaded him to steal his throne?”

Alan snorted a laugh into his tea cup. Though he didn’t outwardly show it much, over the years, he’d grown fond of Alistair’s rather irreverent sense of humor. “Genealogies are often included, Your Majesty.”

“Hope you’re not uncovering any skeletons in our closet,” Alistair grinned, draping an arm over Margie’s shoulders.

Alan’s sip turned into a gulp and he hastily set down his cup and saucer with a clatter. “Your Majesty, what precautions have you taken to safeguard your secret?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Of your heritage.”

The King laughed, “Everyone knows I’m a Royal Bastard, son of a serving girl.”

“Alistair is Maric Theirin’s son,” Margie said, “rightful ruler of Ferelden, descendent of Calenhad the Great. The Landsmeet affirmed Alistair’s claim. His coronation is valid, his heirs well prepared to lead the next generation.”

Alan rubbed his sore eyes and looked around to make sure no servant lurked in a shadowy corner. “There are more than whispers that your mother was likely an elven mage. Possibly Orlesian.”

 _Probably my own._ At least his tired tongue held back that part. The situation was dangerous enough for Alistair without adding new siblings to the mix. “One account claims an unidentified Grey Warden can testify to it.”

Alistair’s smile faded. “Not possible.”

His wife gripped his arm, eyes wide with understanding.

“Fiona,” Margie whispered, “She asked after you, at Skyhold. ‘ _I knew his father._ ’ I hadn’t thought . . .”

“Maric did tend to overwhelm the ladies,” Alistair scowled. “But Fiona was a Warden. She wouldn’t have . . .” he sighed and slumped his shoulders. “She would have.”

The Queen’s lip trembled and she gripped her husband’s arm tighter. “The children . . .”

“Your claim endangers my daughter and son, my grandchildren,” Alistair growled. “And Teagan’s son—the Guerrins, their arling—because they’ve married into my line. Give me one good reason not to kill you now and bury you in the gardens. If rumors of half-bloods or mages spread—”

“Not from me, Sire; but, if you do kill me, with Healer Evelyn gone, who will keep you alive until you determine if the former Grand Enchanter could be a problem? How will you contain the taint in your Grey Warden blood? I don’t want to harm your family. Nor am I interested in civil war. You are the best ruler any nation in Thedas has seen in living memory.”

“Alistair,” Margie said, “we’re more than forty years past the blight, thirty past the Inquisition. Even those who don’t know about the taint will worry about our health soon. Whatever you decide about Fiona, we need to formalize plans for abdication. Sera’s more than ready. Brayden, too.”

“And Duncan?” Alistair asked Margie.

“We need to ask him what he wants, though I think it likely his sister will insist he stay in Denerim as an advisor. Then we can—”

“Retire somewhere quiet?” Alistair smirked, snaking an arm around her waist. “If, of course, we live long enough to retire.”

“I won’t let you die,” Alan’s quiet declaration had all the grim determination of a declaration of war.

“Why do I get the feeling you care more about my fate than my kingdom's?” Alistair asked.

“Because I do.”

 _You’re the only family I have left_ , Alan thought.

Then a beautiful, low female voice let them know they were no longer alone.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margie and Stella enter the Fade through the Mark to fight demons while sitting in the Queen’s parlor in [ chapter 8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637895/chapters/12990706) of Enchant My Heart, Rollie and Stella's summer romance.


	8. A witch’s kiss, a fleeing prince

Alan hadn’t met her before, but he knew her face from Inquisition-era paintings: Morrigan, veteran of the Fifth Blight, friend of the Hero and the Inquisitor. She pushed the door open and sashayed in looking every inch the seductive Witch of the Wilds.

She looked no older than thirty, with raven hair, creamy skin, and full lips, yet she had talents not even Connor possessed. She was the mortal daughter of the human mage Flemeth, who had claimed to be one in being with the elven goddess Mythal.

Alan suppressed a shudder and slowly rose from his seat, ready to shield Alistair if the witch tried to get past him. He hoped she didn’t plan on transforming into a dragon in the King’s parlor and burning them to a crisp.

_There’s not enough room in here for an animal that big to be comfortable._ Alan nearly laughed as the Alistair-like thought flew through his head.

The halls and grounds were quiet. Alan had a feeling she hadn’t entered via the front gate.

“Morrigan,” Alistair breathed.

“’Tis I.”

Alistair tilted his head in inquiry, “You’ve not aged a day.”

The witch didn’t answer.

“Nor changed your clothes?” Alistair asked.

“I have replaced my clothes several times: darkspawn bloodstains do not come out, nor do Red Templars'.”

“Where have you been?” Margie asked politely. “You disappeared just before we cut our wedding cake.” She said it like it had been thirty minutes instead of thirty years. “I saved you a piece with extra frosting.”

Morrigan wandered onto Alistair’s balcony and looked down. “Your gardens have grown beyond red roses.”

“They have,” Alistair said. “And I have grandchildren now.”

Morrigan watched the garden with a poignant smile. “I have no children.”

“I know,” he said.

“It’s best this way.”

“Is it, Morrigan?” Alistair asked gently.

“Yes. Time moves differently in the Crossroads, where one does not sleep.” Her wide eyes seemed almost opaque as she looked unseeing over the railing. “To be dreamless is . . . strange—at least it was at first.”

“Without dreams,” Alan asked, “how do you retain your magic?” Her life force was humming with it and her heart pumped as strong as a dragon’s. He wished Stella was here to listen to her bloodsong. With the exception of dwarves, even non-mages needed to dream to stay sane.

Alistair looked at him and shook his head, indicating he should keep quiet.

“I thought you didn’t need to hide in the Crossroads anymore,” Margie said. “Not since before you were in Celene’s court. We broke both Eluvian we found.” The Eluvian were rare elven mirrors used as portals between locations.

“There is an ancient one who stalks me, keeping just out of sight. He consumed her.” Alan didn’t know the “her” to which Morrigan referred, but Margie’s eyes widened and she blinked away a solitary tear.

“He might even follow me here, if he was brave enough to face the Herald.” Morrigan smiled, “Which he is not.”

“I’m glad you came,” Margie said.

The witch nodded and abruptly changed the subject again. “The voices of the Well tell me Maric had elven lovers. One died. Another is missing, along with her children.”

“Have you been listening to us, Morrigan?” Alistair asked cautiously.

“No.” Much to everyone’s surprise, Morrigan approached Margie and kissed her cheek. “Be well.”

Alan noticed her lips left behind a subtle shimmering green glow like a transfer of paint, which was quickly absorbed into the skin and lost from sight. He should tell Stella. Perhaps Morrigan hadn’t come for Alistair; maybe she had come for Margie.

“Trust not the wolf,” the witch said, “for he will bite you. You know not his greeting, and he no longer honors it.”

Morrigan turned back to the balcony. “Soon, the hunter will become the hunted. We will have justice.” She walked off of the balcony into an airborne shimmering black curtain of smoke and disappeared.

“I think I liked her better as a griffon,” Alistair’s voice was strained.

Margie slid her arms around his waist and looked up into his mist-filled eyes. “She’ll be fine, Alistair. It’s not your fault.”

His chuckle was thick with emotion. “She didn’t even call me smelly or stupid—or _King_ Alistair in that haughty way of hers.” He shifted and drew his wife tighter in his arms, resting his cheek atop her head. “I think this is one of those be-careful-what-you-wish-for moments. Am I a complete arse?”

“For what?” she asked, burying her face in his chest.

“I’m glad she drank from the well instead.”

Alan shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He had a guess as to what had happened back during the Inquisition: He’d read of the elven Crossroads and various mystical wells, as well as wild speculations as to what the Inquisitor and Witch of the Wilds had found in the Arbor Wilds. It wasn’t something the Theirins spoke of in others’ company.

“It’s okay,” Margie stretched up to place a gentle kiss on Alistair’s lips. “I’m relieved, too, but that doesn’t make us care for her any less.”

“Yes, I guess I do.”

Alan had forgotten his fatigue when Morrigan strolled in, but it came crashing back down on his shoulders now. He stifled a yawn and asked, “What would you have me do, Sire?”

Still embracing Margie, Alistair looked up with a small, sad smile that pierced Alan’s heart. “Nothing tonight, Alan. Rest. We three can make plans tomorrow. Thank you for helping save my Margie.”

Alan bowed and returned to his solitary bed, finally sleepy enough to sleep.

-

Swift and silent as the Herald, Duncan sprinted down the hall before Enchanter Alan could see him. He’d frozen in shock when he saw Morrigan glide down the hall toward him, a finger to her lips calling for silence. She’d paused in front of him for a moment with a pensive, yearning look he didn’t understand, then waltzed into his father’s parlor like she belonged there.

He slipped into his parents’ bedchamber and dove under the bed, grabbing one of his mother’s backpacks that she always kept packed for emergencies. Then he climbed over the balcony’s stone railing and shimmied sideways toward his own bedroom window, gripping crevices in the ancient masonry with his bare fingers and toes.

He slipped in via his own balcony and locked the glass doors, pulling the heavy velvet curtains closed.

With luck, no one would notice he was gone until well after dawn. He’d leave his doors locked so a maid wouldn’t come in to build up the fire in the early hours.

He had to find Fiona before someone else did. No matter what story they cooked up, if his parents or Sera sent agents after the former Grand Enchanter, people would get suspicious. Yet no one would suspect Duncan off on that kind of mission—except maybe his mom. The thought made him pause.

Is this the kind of thing she’d had in mind when she’d made him promise?

The sound of a door closing down the hall spurred him back into motion. Ears open for anyone approaching, he quickly stripped and dressed in clean, old clothes he usually reserved for lounging in his room or sparring in the ring. He put on the jerkin, dual blades, boots, and cloak he’d worn earlier that evening.

Even in his rattiest clothes, he couldn’t pass as a farmer, but maybe a low-tier merchant or scribe. The backpack already held a sheaf of parchment and a water-tight bag containing an inkwell and pair of quills.

He tossed his comb in his bag and paused at his bedside, running his hand across the cover of his dog-eared copy of _Anne the Brave_. He had the story memorized, and the art was as fabulous as the words.

It had been the book that made him think reading and writing—and drawing—worth learning.

He gently packed the book in his bag, along with a thin, blank journal.

Ready to run, there was only one thing left to do: write a note to his mother. If he left without word, she would probably hunt him down and kill him herself. He smiled at the thought. There were worse ways to die; still, he’d like to live.

In clear script, he wrote,

_Mom, I’ve gone hunting with a friend. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home._

He signed the note as he did for only his closest family, with the outline of a heart containing the first letter of his name looping as gracefully as a vine. Even his dad appreciated the beauty of it. It would also let his mom know he was leaving of his own free will.

If he was in trouble, he was to write correspondence starting with “Dear Mother,” and ending with “Your son,” blah, blah, blah.

Duncan sealed the note in an envelope with red wax and the Trevelyan signet ring his grandparents had gifted him for his twentieth birthday, then slipped the envelope under his armoire, where his mom would look for it when he didn’t show for breakfast.

Without a backward glance, Prince Duncan Theirin left his rooms. He left his cloak hood down for the moment; if he was seen in the hall, it might look like he was on his way in instead of his way out.

He knew who he _wanted_ for a travel companion. Someone skilled with both words and blade. Someone who had more worldly knowledge than he’d gained from his books, camping with Uncle Varric, and nobles’ parties.

The first person who came to mind might turn him down. Plus, Duncan’s personal . . . _feelings_ could complicate matters. But the only other person he could trust outside the fortress was Sam, who was leagues and leagues away, immersed in his work for the refugee services organization formerly known as the Inquisition.

_I promise. I won’t go anywhere alone._

If Georgie didn’t agree to run off with him, Duncan wasn’t sure what he would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red roses were Kate Cousland's favorite flower and are a recurring theme in Alistair and Margie's romance, [The King and the Inquisitor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4366598/chapters/9908555).
> 
> 08-10-16 edit: I prefer not to retcon (change previously-posted chapters), but I messed up when describing what Duncan packed, and didn’t realize it until editing later chapters, so I updated a handful of paragraphs in [Chapter 8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6277669/chapters/15584050) (A witch’s kiss, a fleeing prince, originally posted 05-12-16).
> 
> Update 09-07-16: I've posted images of Alistair's family tree. Embedding the images on this page made them too large to read, so check out these links: The Theirin family tree [before](https://67.media.tumblr.com/fe160fc8ff3d4489d6c80f442f2ac510/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o1_r1_1280.jpg) Courage, My Heart. The Theirin family tree [during](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c4238afd70832ea8df475da34ad7b946/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o2_r1_1280.jpg) Courage, My Heart.


	9. A visit in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I joined Tumblr! Check out [my blog](http://dafan7711.tumblr.com/) about gaming, writing, and life.
> 
> In May, the muse fed me with a tiny eye dropper—drip, drip, drip—and denied me solids. The first draft of this chapter was a snarky, out-of-character mess. (Possibly because I read some crappy stories suggested by my Kindle.) I like this version better.

In a corner of the cozy kitchen, Georgie sat knees-to-chest in the round copper tub, thinking about the Prince of Ferelden. Duncan’s clever hands, with that sexy callus along the first joint of his third finger. The rest of him was smooth as satin.

At the pub, their fingers had brushed against each other when Duncan passed the cider pitcher.

A sliver of spring air slipped through the window, open an inch for freshness, and raced a chilly line along the edge of the tub.

Shivering, the surgeon rose, toweled off, and tipped the tub on its side. The water ran across the sloped stone floor into the drain—a much more sanitary solution than dumping buckets out the window into the lane. A friend of Gorim’s had installed the drain and laid the tiles well enough to impress the dwarf King of Orzammar. Not that Orzammar would recognize a Surfacer . . .

Thoughts of the weapons merchant and his friend distracted Georgie from Duncan for less than a minute.

_Why, Duncan? Why do you want to spend time with me?_

Duncan was an intelligent, intense, _intimate_ person. Being in his company was as overwhelming as inhaling ethers. Georgie could listen to him talk all day. Could talk to him all day.

Be lost in his arms all day.

_No, he’s_ royalty. _He can’t be with someone who’s the product of a village maiden and her rogue Templar rapist._

_Stop. Don’t ruin tonight’s buzz with thoughts of the future._

Refusing to let sniffles become real tears, Georgie locked up downstairs, then went up to the bedroom to put on a thin cotton shirt and breeches for sleeping. The post-midnight air was cold, but the quilt thick, and the shirt’s worn material was as comforting as a bedtime story from Gran.

Except for the deadest part of winter, the bedroom window stayed open.

Poised to pull back the covers, Georgie felt more than heard someone approaching down the lane.

This early in the season, the smell of the city alleys couldn’t mask the familiar scents of fortress and scholar that wafted up: The subtle smell of fancy soap from Ostwick. Fresh ink and dried parchment. Blade oil from the Free Marches. The early wildflowers of the Queen’s gardens.

Georgie snorted in amusement.

Duncan had snuck out again—unaccompanied.

-

The lane was blacker than stealth powder and Duncan’s boots made no sound on the hard-packed dirt as he approached the ground floor window of the two-story row house. He paused to look up, heart thudding faster when he saw a basket of white petunias hanging by the upper window, bathed in pale moonlight that didn’t reach the ground.

_You brought my flowers home._

The window slid further open and Georgie called down, “Go around to the door.”

Duncan sighed, “I thought I was quiet.”

“You were—not even the Nightingale could have heard you—I was up already. Come on.”

He went around to the front door, which opened before he could knock.

Georgie welcomed him in and closed and bolted the door. “What do you need?”

Before he could lose his nerve, Duncan said, “My grandmother might be an elf. A mage. Orlesian.”

“Really?” Georgie turned and headed up the stairs. Without thinking, Duncan followed—right into the bedroom, where the red velvet comforter was turned back in invitation.

“I overheard Alan tell Dad that an unidentified Grey Warden could testify to it.”

“That puts your family in danger,” Georgie said, pulling a bag from the armoire and tossing some clean socks in.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing. You’re wearing a backpack, which means you’re on your way out of town. Even if the nights weren’t cold, I’ll need extra socks and a change of clothes.” A spare shirt and breeches went into the bag.

Duncan’s heart soared. _You’re coming with me._

He hadn’t even asked.

Georgie ducked behind a privacy screen to change. Within the polished mahogany supports, the creamy yellow fabric was painted with red roses that reminded Duncan of his parents’ gardens.

The firelight illuminated Georgie’s form, as strong and graceful as a swan, yet as tall as Duncan himself.

Duncan swallowed back a surge of lust and averted his eyes.

“I packed extra clothes, too,” he said. “And I have two water skins, two tin cups in a pot for making stew, and an herb knife. I, uh, nicked the knife from Stella’s office on my way out.”

“She won’t mind,” Georgie said, stepping back out into the room and pulling on a brown leather jerkin and wrist bracers. The trim fit accentuated Georgie’s sleek build.

Georgie retrieved a dual-blade belt from the armoire and slid each blade from its sheath to confirm their pristine condition.

“You use a belt, not a shoulder harness?” Duncan asked. The belt was much older than his own, and looked well-traveled. An intricate nature scene was carved into the brown leather, with small runes twinkling in the eyes of the bear and halla.

“It leaves room for my bow and quiver.”

Of course it did. Georgie could handle anything. And noticed everything.

“You left your shield behind.”

Duncan pulled the edge of his cloak aside to show his belt, embossed with a simple vine pattern. “I don’t have a sword. I’m more comfortable with daggers.”

Georgie nodded, blew out the bedside candle, banked the fire, and led the way back downstairs.

“I didn’t make arrangements for transportation,” Duncan said. “Sneaking a couple of horses out of the fortress undetected is beyond my skill.

“I did bring money,” he pulled two purses from his backpack and tossed one of the sacks to Georgie, who deftly caught it. “But I’m thinking we should camp—both to save coin and avoid notice.”

“I agree. Where are we headed?”

“I don’t trust the local minstrels, and there wasn’t a chance to raid the enchanters’ studies for documentation, so,” he took a deep breath, “I was hoping we could start with your gran.”

Georgie’s elated smile took his breath away.

“That’s a perfect place to start, Duncan. We can make it there on foot before dawn, avoid any search parties. We can figure out horses tomorrow.”

They slipped out into the night, locking the door behind them.

Georgie silently led the way to the clinic, where they stocked up on first aid items and Georgie left Maeve a note. Duncan didn’t ask to read it.

No one looked at them twice when they exited Denerim’s main gate.

The walk to Georgie’s gran’s was long and slow in the dark: breaking an ankle in an unseen fennec hole was not something either of them wanted to risk.

The blush of dawn was still hours off when they arrived. Soft moonlight shone on freshly-tilled gardens in front of a two-room cottage Duncan had not seen in fourteen years. The door was unlocked.

Georgie entered without knocking.

The fire in the hearth danced merrily, washing everything in orange, red, and yellow light. The scent of woodsmoke blanketed everything.

The oldest woman he’d ever seen stood in the middle of the front room, as if she’d been waiting for them. Her fair face was wrinkled; her clean breeches and linen shirt were not. She wore her pure white hair up in a bun similar to his mother’s style.

“Georgie,” she opened her arms wide for a hug, her smile as gorgeous as the surgeon’s. Her voice was as clear and bright as a maiden’s. Very different from Georgie’s. “You’re just in time for bed lunch.”

His stomach growled at the mention of food. A lot had happened since the stew they’d had at the pub, with Hill and Timmons hovering nearby.

With no introduction or explanation, she turned to him.

“Duncan, welcome,” she enveloped him in a warm hug and kissed his cheek, though he was certain he’d only seen her once from a distance when he was six years old.

He couldn’t recall if anyone other than his family and Dagna had ever hugged him. _What an odd thought._ Uncle Varric sometimes gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder, but no one else ever got close enough to have a private conversation, much less an embrace.

Never had anyone immediately accepted him like this. The realization settled uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach, lying in wait beneath the cozy balm of the old woman’s embrace.

She had no problem calling him by name instead of title, and insisted that he call her Gran like everyone else. Though he hadn’t been prepared for the hug and kiss, he did remember Georgie mentioning that Gran didn’t tell anyone her birth name, not even her grandchild.

“Thank you,” he said, squeezing her back.

They piled their cloaks and bags by the door and she settled them at the sturdy wood table with hot tea and dried turkey, dried fruit, and soft, fluffy bread.

“Where are you two headed?”

Duncan looked to Georgie, who nodded, so he told her, “We’re looking for someone who left Skyhold thirty years ago and doesn’t want to be found.”

“There are colder trails than that, but not by much,” the old woman said, stirring honey into her tea. “I gather this isn’t a mission for your mother.”

Duncan took a sip to delay answering. The tea burnt his tongue and he flinched. They needed her help, but how much could they reveal without endangering her?

“It’s okay,” she patted his smooth hand with her wrinkled one. “You’re as clever as she. You’ll figure it out.

“Now, Georgie, what has Maeve been up to?”

Duncan let Gran and Georgie’s voices wrap around him, a perfect blend of smooth and rough music that rocked him like a lullaby. The cottage was cozy, the air warm. It was a safe place. All thoughts of tomorrow and where they were going left his mind.

His head jerked forward as he almost fell asleep into his tea.

“Come, Duncan,” Gran set his cup aside as gently as if he was a child. “There are clean sheets on the bed for you.”

“I can sleep in front of the fire.”

“Come, luv,” she guided him into the bedroom. He watched in a daze as she removed his boots and tucked him in.

After a few slow blinks, he realized she’d left the bedroom door open. He’d never slept with the door open before. It was nice. It felt . . . open. Like he wasn’t alone in the world.

Gran had settled in the kitchen chair by the fire and Georgie sat on the floor by her feet, resting a cheek along the side of her knee.

Georgie’s contented sigh was the most beautiful song he’d ever heard.

-

Once the Prince was soundly asleep, Georgie walked the empty garden border with Gran. The moon had set behind the horizon, leaving them in darkness except for the firelight coming from the cottage window.

“My precious child, why have you not told him?”

“You know why.”

Georgie did not deny loving Duncan. Gran did not say royalty was free to love wherever they wished. He could not be close friends with a commoner. The Prince also could not be sullied by one touched by magic, however small that magic might be.

“We need to leave in the morning. Duncan knows a Dalish scribe who might know something, but would be difficult to track down. Our quarry has ties to Orlais, yet we’re sure they would avoid Val Royeaux—”

“Fiona hides in a cave. Meet with the usual people and ask them about pink turnips.”

Georgie’s scoff sounded like an aborted sneeze trapped before it could fly. It wasn’t surprising that Gran had figured out whom they sought, but there were few avenues where she could know of Fiona’s whereabouts, and the most likely was the least comfortable.

“Gran, are you in the Queen’s pocket? Did the Herald know all this shit already?”

Even without help from Divine Victoria, the former Inquisitor probably knew where everyone was. It was entirely plausible that she herself skulled in the shadows beyond the garden.

Instead of answer, Gran made for the cottage. “Sleep,” she said. “A caravan passes around luncheon—you can get lost in their ranks to cover your tracks.”

It was a good idea: A day’s ride with merchants should be sufficient cover before heading their own way. And then what?

_I’ll be alone with Duncan._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Heal My Heart, ten-year-old Georgie tells Cullen the rape story during [chapter 20](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5728576/chapters/13967808), “I don’t speak.”


	10. More than one secret

Alan woke to a knock and found the King at his door in the watery dawn of first light.

“Alistair.”

“My son left in the night. Did he say anything to you?”

_Oh, shit._

“No, Your Majesty. Would you like to continue this conversation in private?” Alan stepped back and waved him inside.

Alistair nodded and crossed the threshold. Alan closed the door.

“Margie says not to worry,” Alistair rubbed his hands over his face in the same manner Alan had while bent over genealogies. “The note he left was vague, but signed in a way that indicates he wasn’t kidnapped . . . I . . . she says to keep this quiet, and I agree.”

Alan hoped the servants were as closed-lipped about the Theirins’ private business as the guards, or the news would be all over Denerim before noon. They wouldn’t _not_ notice the Prince was missing from the fortress.

“Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll let you know if I hear or think of anything.”

“Thank you.” Alistair turned to leave, pausing with his hand on the door.

“You—you don’t think he overheard us last night, do you? Went running after Fiona?”

He didn’t want to answer, but Alan couldn’t lie to Alistair.

“I’m sure he did.”

Alistair nodded again, tears pooling in his eyes. “I don’t care who my mother is. I don’t care who’s King. I want my son back.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

Alan slumped down on the edge of the bed, too tired to cry himself. He wasn’t entirely surprised by Duncan’s unannounced departure. It’s exactly the sort of thing Alistair or Margie would have done if they’d not had the immediate concerns of Denerim and protecting the rest of the family. Alan himself was searching for Fiona in his own way.

_If I’d told them sooner, could we have avoided this?_

It didn’t matter now. All they could do was damage control.

_Why did I try to do this alone? Has my stubborn pride ruined us all?_

Alan forced himself to dress and go down to the breakfast room. Margie and Alistair weren’t there, and everyone else was still abed, so he ate alone.

On the way back to his rooms, he took a shortcut through the throne room.

“You’re her son, aren’t you?”

Alan turned to find himself alone in front of Alistair’s throne with Margie.

 _Bugger it._ There was no way to avoid answering, and he couldn’t speak an outright lie to the Herald of Andraste; she’d see right through it.

“Yes.”

“Yet you’ve helped us, for years, as a servant, never asking for more. You’re fam—”

“I would do anything to save Alistair,” he cut her off. He couldn’t let her voice anything that connected Alistair’s blood to magic or elves. Alan could not be one of them. If they took him in, their lives were forfeit.

Sweet Maker, her son was missing, her whole family could face execution by a Landsmeet for putting a half-blood on the throne, and here she was, inviting him into the Theirin family heart. No wonder Alistair couldn’t imagine life without her.

“ _Anything_ ,” he insisted.

To his utter shock, she stepped forward and placed her bare hand on his chest, over his heart.

“Alan, don’t lose your soul in the process.”

She stepped back and left him alone in the cold, dark, empty room.

“I may have already,” he whispered to himself. His health, certainly, and perhaps his sanity.

-

Despite the Queen’s health scare and getting back to bed late, Janelle was up shortly after dawn.

As she brushed her hair, she contemplated Stella’s suggestion to give Alan another chance. If she did, she’d have to admit she’d clung to an immature decision for fourteen years.

At twenty-six, she’d been in awe of the thirty-three-year-old scholar who could effortlessly call down Firestorm and translate ancient elven. They’d worked together on so many research projects, she’d felt they had understood each other.

After a year of gathering her courage, she’d asked him to the First Day festival and he’d brushed her off. She’d been so embarrassed, she’d done her best to avoid him—while still pining for him.

“Well that was stupid,” she muttered to herself. “What a waste—”

“You ready for breakfast, or what?” Stella pounded on the door with an open hand. “I’m starving!”

The two enchanters found the breakfast room empty of people, but the buffet was hot.

“There are no pancakes in the world like Denerim Fortress pancakes,” Stella liberally poured the syrup until it threatened to pour over the edge of her plate.

Janelle laughed. “They’ve got good bacon, too. Is it like this every morning?”

“One of the perks of working for royalty. Good horses, too, when the Queen’s a Trevelyan. We should go for a ride, since it’s too cold yet to swim. Let’s go down to the stables after breakfast, so you can pick a mount.”

“Sure.”

On their way out, the Queen stopped them in the hall. She looked drained, but that was to be expected, considering the intense battle she’d had with the Mark the night before.

“Stella, you planned a dream visit with Connor today, didn’t you?”

Janelle was pretty sure Stella hadn’t planned on one until next week, but Stella said, “Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like me to share a message?”

“The tea is tepid.”

Stella nodded. “The tea is tepid. I was on my way to meet with him now, actually. I’ll mention it.”

Janelle had no idea what it meant, but she was sure it was more important than Stella introducing her to the horses.

“Then perhaps you’d like to walk with me, Enchanter Janelle?” the Queen asked. “I could give you a tour of the marketplace.”

Shopping? The morning after she’d had a near-death experience?

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll fetch my cloak.”

When Janelle descended the keep steps, she found the Queen waiting with a guard at her side.

“Enchanter Janelle, this is Guard Hill. She will be our escort this morning.”

The blonde guard wore a sword and shield. She bowed, “Enchanter Janelle.”

Queen Margaret gestured for Janelle to walk at her side and led the way out the main gate into the already-bustling market. The sun was barely up over the city walls.

“Hill.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?” the guard stepped forward to walk at the Queen’s side.

“My son left last night on a trip with a friend.”

“I didn’t know the Prince was traveling, Your Majesty.”

“No one should.”

 _Then why am I here?_ Janelle thought.

“You were the last to speak with Duncan yesterday.”

Hill glanced toward the Queen and looked forward again as they walked. “Was I?”

“Yes. Tell me about your outing.”

“Timmons and I accompanied the Prince to the surgeons’, where His Highness’ sutures were removed. We then kept watch near their table at the pub. The Prince accompanied Surgeon Georgie, Surgeon Maeve, and Surgeon Maeve’s lady friend for a pint. Then we returned directly to the fortress. Nothing suggested the Prince planned to leave again.”

“Thank you, Hill.”

The blonde warrior nodded and took a step back to shadow them as they continued their stroll.

“Thank you for seeing to Alan’s delivery personally, Enchanter Janelle.” The Queen spoke as though she hadn’t just had a confidential conversation with her guard while Janelle witnessed. “He and Stella are very happy to have you here with us.”

“It is my pleasure, Your Majesty.”

“Is it?”

“Pardon?”

“If you’d prefer, you can be on your way and I’ll have Dagna send someone else to make the return delivery.”

Janelle didn’t think anyone, not even Connor, had Dagna do anything. Dagna sweetly ran the world and the rest of the world ran to keep up.

“You would like to dismiss me, Your Majesty?”

“Oh, no! You’re welcome here.” She ignored a furtive movement in an alley they passed, but Hill watched it closely.

“You’re good for Alan. He’s very important to Alistair.”

She’d said “Alan,” not “Enchanter Alan.” Alan helped Alistair control the darkspawn-archdemon blood taint he’d acquired to gain a Grey Warden’s talents, but it wasn’t unusual to befriend people with whom you lived for years.

“Mages appreciate the chance to collaborate, now that we’re often spread out across Thedas,” Janelle said.

“It’s more than that.”

“Not for Alan, Your Majesty.”

“Hmm.”

They walked in silence back to the fortress, where they found Prince Curran and his father working with Theo in the practice ring. Stella’s husband helped the stable hands ready horses for Princess Sera and company.

Guard Hill still in her shadow, Queen Margaret leaned a shoulder on the stable door jam and smiled as she watched her daughter and granddaughter with the horses.

Janelle hoped Stella would show up soon. She wasn’t used to socializing with royalty, even if she worked for the King’s cousin.

“What do you mean you don’t want to go for a ride?” Princess Sera asked her daughter, who refused to mount her pony. “Not two minutes ago you begged Enchanter Stella to let us go with her. She’ll be down shortly, expecting us ready to go.”

“Curran fight Theo.” Culver pointed toward the sparring ring. “I watch.”

Mother and daughter stared at each other, eyebrows raised, chins jut forward.

“Your Highness,” Rollie offered, handing his reins to a stable hand, “I can chaperone the Princess, if you’d like to go riding.”

“Yes!” Culver beamed at him and lifted her arms. “Up.”

Princess Sera nodded her assent and Rollie scooped Culver up into his arms, making her squeal with delight.

“We’ll be back soon, Culver. Daddy’s here.”

But the child wasn’t listening. She had twisted in Rollie’s arms to look over her shoulder at her brother and Theo sparring under Brayden’s supervision.

“I’m Coming!” Stella raced down the keep steps. She gave her husband a quick kiss as he walked past, still holding the Princess.

Janelle asked her, “How is it that you run everywhere, but you’re never out of breath?”

“Magic.”

Janelle snorted.

“Have you picked a mount yet?” Stella asked. “Let’s see who the horsemaster recommends.”

Five minutes later, they rode out with Queen Margaret, Princess Sera, and Guard Hill. Janelle never carried a weapon, and Stella didn’t need one, but the other three women wore theirs with effortless grace while riding.

The sight of her four confident companions made Janelle think about picking up a practice blade.

_I can’t call firestorm, but I could do that._

There were mages at the College who used blades instead of staffs. Maybe they’d let her train with them.

When they left the city, the quiet road flowed through green pastures and Sera fell back to chat with Hill. Stella rode between the Queen and Janelle.

“Any word from Connor?” the Queen asked Stella.

“Dagna said she put a fresh pot on, and the scones were perfect.”

Did they _have_ to use a secret code that involved food? It was making Janelle hungry for lunch.

“Ah,” the Queen smiled, reins held loosely in her gloved hands, “And did my husband ask you about Duncan?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’m afraid I have no further news.”

“There will be. Let’s picnic by the swim spot.”

A few miles later, they let their horses graze on fresh green grass while they sat on the ground to eat their own lunch by a slow-flowing stream that sparkled in the spring sun. Fifty yards from the road, they were sheltered from view by thick bushes. Mature trees lined the other bank.

Janelle lost track of how much time they spent munching dried fruit and sipping from wine skins. She leaned back on her elbows and watched Stella and Sera debate why spirit runes can’t be added to daggers. Hill seemed just as amused, and Margie . . . where was the Queen?

Janelle glanced over her shoulder toward the horses, where Queen Margaret was quietly conversing with a white-haired woman she remembered from Stella’s wedding. The old woman’s dark cloak was a shade of green that was hard to distinguish from the trees and earth behind her. She squeezed the Queen’s elbow, kissed her cheek, and stepped back into a stand of trees, disappearing from sight.

Janelle quickly turned back toward Stella, not wanting to be caught staring.

Queen Margaret returned to their picnic blanket, saying, “I’d like to head home now. There’s much to be done this afternoon.”

When they returned, the training yard was empty. They brushed out their horses, hung their tack, and went their separate ways: Guard Hill to the barracks, the Queen to the family wing, and the enchanters to Stella’s tower office.

“You want to play cards or something?” Stella asked, stifling a yawn as she opened the door. “After last night’s excitement and today’s outing, I don’t feel like doing much.”

“Actually, I think I might catch a nap or see if Alan wants help translating those scrolls.”

Stella grinned impishly, “Do that and you two can nap together.”

“Stella?” Rollie’s sleepy voice was muffled by their closed bedroom door, off to the left of Stella’s work table.

“Good lick—I mean, luck,” Stella winked and closed her door, leaving Janelle alone in the hall.

Right. Maybe she should hide in the gardens until dinner.

_Don’t be absurd, Janelle. You’re a reference librarian; see if your patron has everything he needs._

Right.

It wouldn’t hurt to lick— _damn it, Stella!_ —look over the materials together.


	11. Flaming blades, interrupted date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to make a Theirin family tree graphic. In the meantime, here’s a refresher on some names, relations, and ages, in the year 9:72 Dragon:
> 
> Alistair Theirin (62) and Margie Trevelyan’s children: Princess Sera (30) and Prince Duncan (20).
> 
> Sera Theirin (30) and Brayden Guerrin’s children: Prince Curran (8) and Princess Culver (2).
> 
> Ser Rollie (49) and Enchanter Stella’s (42) child: Theo (9).
> 
> Enchanter Alan is 47. Enchanter Janelle is 40.
> 
> The following includes spoilers for David Gaider’s novel [Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne](https://www.amazon.com/Dragon-Age-Stolen-David-Gaider/dp/0765363712/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1467766641&sr=8-1&keywords=the+stolen+throne).

_She knows. She knows, she knows, she knows._

The two-word litany filled Alan’s head, leaving no room for him to comprehend the words on the page in front of him. With a sigh, he closed his book and capped his inkwell. Perhaps a walk in the gardens would clear his mind, help him figure out if he was fearfully anxious or giddily relieved that Margie knew he was Fiona’s son.

He exited the keep just in time to see Janelle riding out the gate with the Queen, Princess, Stella, and a guard. The memory of her standing in front of his bedroom door last night rushed through him like Flashfire. Had she always been that soft and pretty? Gentle curves and dark hair wrapped around a brilliant scholar who knew what you were looking for before you did. All those times he’d sat by her side at the College, he hadn’t noticed. Maker, yesterday she said she’d even asked him out.

“Right flank!” Princess Culver shouted. She had her arms wrapped around Rollie’s neck while he held her on his hip. “Too open!” she called out to her brother.

Curran grunted in response, but bent his elbows to bring his shield and wooden practice sword closer to his chest while he and the taller boy circled each other. Culver’s curls shone in the morning sun like obsidian, while Curran’s wavy cap of sweat-streaked hair gleamed gold as his mother and grandfather’s.

Alan wandered over to stand with Brayden and watch.

“No fair for you to help him!” Theo grinned playfully, but didn’t take his eyes off his opponent. “Tiring, Your Highness?”

“Never.” Curran swung in with three swift strokes that Theo parried, then felled the older boy with a double shield bash so quick Alan almost didn’t see it.

“Ungh,” Theo hit the dirt on his back, spring mud splattering his black hair and fair face. “Yeah, Curran, but I’m exhausted. Your point.”

The younger lad grinned and helped him up.

“Well done, boys,” Brayden said. “Clean and put away your gear in the equipment shed— _in the proper places_.”

“Yeah, Dad,” Curran waved him off and Brayden shook his head.

“If his gran’s not watching, the swords end up on the floor and he shows up at dinner covered in mud.” He chuckled, “Just like Sera and I did at his age—except it was my mum who made sure we bathed first.

“How about you, Alan: Ever show up at the dinner table covered in mud?”

“I was in a Circle. We didn’t get to go outside and play.”

It hadn’t been bad. Not like Kirkwall’s Circle, at least, and, though secretive, his mum hadn’t been skittish yet. As Grand Enchanter, she’d been busy, but there were other mages to keep him company.

“Sorry, man,” Brayden looked sheepish.

“It’s over, Brayden. The Divine dissolved the Circles the year you were born. I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

“But I should. We can’t afford to forget injustice, especially if we govern others,” he looked to Rollie with a wry smile. “A wise man taught me that.”

Rollie, holding a now-quiet Culver, nodded his acknowledgement, but kept his eyes on the sparring ring, where the boys shared giggled whispers. They’d put their practice swords away and wore their personal shields on their backs. Curran had a dress sword in a scabbard at his side, and Theo held up a standard guard’s blade for him to inspect.

“Do that again,” Curran said.

Alan gasped as flames whooshed down Theo’s blade and Curran clapped with glee.

_Another thing I’ve missed in my self-absorption._ Theo’s life force hummed with magic, until he gutted the flames. Then his power was muted, only perceptible to Alan because he now knew to listen for it.

“Rollie’s son shouldn’t need to hide—none of our children should have to hide,” Brayden said, voice grim. “Mages are free, but they still don’t live freely.”

“Daddy,” Culver’s little voice wavered and she leaned out from Rollie, reaching for her father, “Don’t be sad.”

Rollie handed her over. Brayden pulled her close and she nuzzled into his neck, clinging her fingers tightly together.

Alan wondered if she was coming down with something. Culver rarely sat still, much less let herself be held for an entire sparring round. She was always telling her parents, “I walk!”

“Hey, Dad!” Prince Curran ran over. “Where’s Uncle Duncan? I want him to see something!”

Culver gave a little sob into her father’s neck and Brayden and Rollie exchanged glances.

“Dove, what’s your problem?” Curran asked. His sister tightened her grip and shook her head without looking up.

Alan suddenly wished to be anywhere else. Even a dragon’s den. He didn’t think Curran would appreciate his presence when Curran received news of Duncan’s departure.

Theo narrowed his eyes at his father and Rollie stared right back.

“Wash up now, boys,” Brayden said. “There will be plenty of time to share your new tricks later.”

“Fine, then, but before supper!” Curran sprinted for the keep steps. “C’mon, Theo!”

Theo hesitated, questions almost visible on his lips, until Rollie jerked his head, indicating he should follow the Prince, and Theo ran to catch up. Rollie followed, and Brayden trailed after, carrying Culver.

Whatever Brayden’s thoughts on mage freedom, if everyone knew his wife’s grandmother might be an Orlesian elf mage . . . Alan shuddered. Not everyone was so accepting. It was time to tackle some more documents to see if there was any real evidence one way or another.

He returned to his study and opened the book he’d started that morning.

Maric showed up in all kinds of unexpected places, in elven and the King’s Tongue. In Orlesian stories, references to “the randy Fereldan dog” were clearly code for Maric. The accounts didn’t mesh with Alan’s mother’s stories of the King. She’d waxed on about the brave, youthful King Maric, who cared not a whit for race and class. Passionately loyal. Concerned about justice.

Alan turned the page and flinched. The left-hand page showed a series of ink drawings of the tragic affair of Prince Maric with the elven bard and betrayer Katriel, and how Maric’s friend Loghain tricked Maric into killing her. The right-hand page showed a single panel detailing four figures: Prince Maric Theirin, his betrothed Rowan Guerrin, the elf Katriel, and Maric’s friend Loghain Mac Tir.

The setting was a crumbling ruin in the Deep Roads. Maric gripped the elf in a desperate embrace. An inky wall of darkness separated him from his betrothed, who was just as passionately wrapped in the arms of Loghain. Though they did not look at each other, Maric and Rowan each had a hand stretched out behind, reaching for each other across the abyss.

The caption below read, _Maric’s first elven lover did not bear him a child, but Queen Rowan eventually did._

Rowan and Maric’s son had been King Cailan. What Alan needed was evidence regarding Cailan’s younger brother. The phrase “first elven lover” indicated there had been more than one elven lover; the source gave no more clues.

He wanted to believe Tarsian’s account, and hoped it meant Maric’s only children were Cailan and Alistair—

“You’re not translating, you’re hunting,” Janelle’s soft voice slipped into his office like the sleek, subtle scent of rose petals. Even when serious, she was calm, quiet. No wonder novices often approached the head librarian first: she seemed safe to talk to.

But was it safe for her if she knew the truth?

“You tore through that box of elven materials overnight, and now you’re plowing through Orlesian adventure books like you’re not interested in the swordplay. You’re looking for something, and you haven’t asked me to help.”

He abruptly stood and snapped the book closed, forcing a cheery, “How about a walk?”

“A walk? Alan, I’ve been for a walk, and a horseback ride, _and_ a picnic.”

“I’ll buy you a book at the Wonders of Thedas,” he offered his most charming smile, hoping it didn’t come off as creepy, and was rewarded with a reluctant twitch of her lips.

“I’ll fetch my cloak.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an enjoyable afternoon. As they walked in the bright sun and cool spring breeze, they discussed the library staff, Tethras’ latest novel, Dagna’s newest elven acquisitions—not including the problematic scrolls Alan had translated last night—and the most recent batch of puppies born in the College barn.

But Alan kept it all about Janelle: any time she asked him about his life in Denerim, he countered with a question about their mutual friends at the Independent College of Magi. How could he admit his own life had been reduced to worrying alone in his study, except for whenever Alistair’s family requested his presence?

Then they reached the Wonders of Thedas shop and there were all the magical tools and tomes to distract them. They spent a pleasant hour browsing the new acquisitions and ancient arcane sections.

“Look at the scrollwork,” Janelle ran a hand down the vellum of a spell text. “And these drawings: they’re dwarven. A dwarf studying enchantment theory _before_ the Blight—oh, I have to get this one for Dagna!”

“Allow me,” Alan said. “And pick one for yourself.”

Her happy laugh sent a pleasant tingle across his skin.

“The library appreciates your generosity, Alan.”

It wasn’t for the sake of the library, but he wasn’t quite ready to reveal that yet, not after her little tirade last night: _And I was certainly not going to beg for attention from a man so quick to forget I even asked him_.

Would she be interested now?

A cheerful mage around Duncan’s age made change while an elderly Tranquil carefully wrapped their books in brown paper tied with twine.

“Thank you, Simon,” the younger man took the books from the Tranquil and handed them to Janelle, seeming not to notice how her hands and lip trembled. But Alan noticed, and his heart wrenched in his chest as Janelle watched the Tranquil mage, who stared back, emotionless.

“Thank you,” Alan said, since Janelle seemed to have lost her voice. He wrapped a gentle arm around her shoulders, and guided her out of the shop.

She shuddered when the door closed behind them.

“You work with Tranquil at the College?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she took a shaky breath and nodded, “and I just realized how I take them for granted. After some time away . . . seeing Simon reminded me how heinous the Rite is. When—when all the remaining Tranquil die, will we forget the evil done to them?”

He tightened his arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. “I don’t know, luv. I hope not.”

Alan was so focused on Janelle, he didn’t notice another mage approaching until she spoke.

“Ah-lain.”

_Shit!_

Quick as lightning, Alan dropped his hold on Janelle and stepped in front of her, shielding her from the unknown woman. Letting someone sneak up on you was always dangerous, but the accent was Orlesian, the visitor wore fancy robes from Vivienne’s Circle, and two of Madame de Fer’s Templars watched from the mouth of the lane.

The Wonders of Thedas shop was on a dead-end street. The only way out was past the Orlesian and her Templars.

With Stella, they’d be no problem, but with Janelle—

Janelle chuckled. “Do Orlesians really pronounce your name like that, ‘Ah-lain?’”

“Not usually,” he answered without looking back.

The Circle mage raised a haughty eyebrow. “Come, Alain, dismiss this Fereldan wench and come home.”

“I am Fereldan,” he answered.

“Non, you are no barbarian. Vivienne will forgive everything.”

“Madame de Fer forgives nothing,” Alan said. “I have never been in her power, and I’m not about to start now. She doesn’t want me. What’s your real reason for being here?”

“Val Royeaux says the King is elf-blooded.”

“Impossible,” Alan scoffed, the panicked increase of his heartbeat perceptible only to himself. “I’ve been with his household for most of your young, naïve life. With my singular talents, I would have uncovered such a secret.”

“The Circle and College can use this knowledge to our advantage.” Her greedy, hungry look disgusted him. “She was a mage, his knife-eared—”

“Use that pejorative term again and I’ll silence you for good,” Alan’s steely threat was too quiet for the Templars to hear, but the Orlesian got the message. She paled and licked her lips nervously, yet couldn’t seem to figure out how to converse politely.

“Really? Your precious abomination wouldn’t approve if you murdered me.”

No one had had been stupid enough to call Connor an abomination in over thirty years.

Janelle stepped around Alan and he grabbed her hand to keep her from getting any closer to the other woman.

Janelle’s humorless laugh was unexpected and brash. “He has offered you help, consultations, and compassion, but make no mistake: Grand Enchanter Connor Guerrin is in complete control. He’s the most powerful mage Thedas has ever known. You’ve no bargaining power here.”

The Orlesian raised her chin, “The True Circle is the only safe place for magic. No one can harness real power without the wisdom of Madame de Fer.”

“Excuse you?” Janelle said. “Who found, catalogued, and loaned those elite texts to your tutors? Librarians. Who translated the various elven dialects when you couldn’t be bothered to learn more than hello, goodbye, and I want a cup of tea? Librarians. Who defended your archives and rescued your own writings when war sent Thedas up in flames? Librarians. Who saved your life with secret sanctuaries when Red Templars hunted you? Librarians.

“Without librarians, you’d be a rabid animal. You owe librarians your life, your knowledge, your _culture_ , yet you’re woefully ignorant of even that.”

Wildly amused, Alan couldn’t contain his grin, but he managed to not outright laugh. He didn’t want an enchanters’ duel in the middle of the marketplace.

“Like she said,” he told the Orlesian, who spun around and stomped off in silent fury, closely tailed by her two Templars.

“That was bloody brilliant,” he pulled Janelle against his chest and tucked her head under his chin, crushing her arms and books between them. “You’re brilliant.” It wasn’t how he’d envisioned her first time in his arms, but he’d take whatever he could get.

“Uh, Alan? Free hugs are nice and all, but we’re blocking the lane.”

He carried her books on their peaceful walk home, and, all too soon, they stood in the hall between their study doors.

Suddenly unsure of what to do, he handed her the tomes. “Um, I’ll see you at dinner.”

He entered his study and headed for his desk, letting the door swing closed on its own, but she was right behind him, pushing it open before it latched and following him in.

“Alan, why did Duncan leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Tranquil Proprietor](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Tranquil_Proprietor) in Origins isn’t named in this wiki entry, so I called him Simon, after his voice actor, Simon Templeman, who also voiced Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir.


	12. Enkindled friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

The look of fear Alan gave Janelle was disconcerting, but she repeated her inquiry.

“Alan, why did Duncan leave?”

The dinner bell chimed in the hall and he flinched. She remained standing in front of the closed door.

“We’re not going anywhere until you tell me the truth or physically throw me out, which I won’t make easy for you.”

She patiently waited while he opened and closed his mouth like a codfish. With a sigh, Alan slumped down to sit on his desk, hands folded, head bowed.

“My mother is former Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

“I—I’m sorry. I thought . . .”

“That my mother had died at Ostagar, Kinloch, or the Conclave?”

_Pretty much._

“I’m sorry I never asked you about your parents.” Hers had always been with her, and she’d assumed anyone who was alone had been orphaned.

_Great assumption, Janelle._

He shrugged. “It wasn’t technically a secret, but we didn’t advertise it either. She’s an elf, Orlesian—at that time, their long, cruel occupation of Ferelden was still fresh in everyone’s mind—a former slave, and former Grey Warden to boot. She wanted to shield me from as much hate as she could.”

“And your father?”

_Please don’t let him be a Templar._

“I don’t know. She said he was an old friend, lost at sea.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged again, rubbed a thumb along his knee.

“You’re Orlesian?”

He glared at her. “I’m _Fereldan_.”

“Yes, of course you are. Sorry.”

He sighed. “I’m not mad at you, Janelle.”

“I know,” she set her books beside him on his desk and took his hand in hers. “I know.

“But . . . what does your mother have to do with Prince Duncan?”

Alan took her other hand, rubbed his thumbs in circles along her palms. He looked up, expression grim, “Alistair may also be Fiona’s son.”

He held her hands, but the world fell out from underneath her feet in a great whoosh that pulled her stomach along with it. She freed her right hand to touch his cheek. No wonder he was stressed to the point of illness. Whatever Alistair’s friendships with Teyrn Cousland and Arl Guerrin, the Bannorn wouldn’t wait for evidence, determine its veracity; one whiff of this rumor and they’d destroy the family.

“Then you’re all in danger.”

He gave a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, we gathered that. I was tired enough to let it slip last night. Margie believed it right away, Alistair threatened to kill me to protect the children, and a Witch of the Wilds swooped in to say some elven voices in her head said Maric had elven lovers. ‘One died. Another is missing, along with her children,’ she said.”

Janelle shook her head and let her hand slide down to his shoulder. She absently rubbed her thumb against the side of his neck.

“Looks like I missed a lot by going to bed instead of midnight tea.”

He gave a real laugh for that, the masculine rumbling of his chest making her aware of how close they were, eye-to-eye, loosely holding on to one another.

“So, Duncan was at this clandestine meeting?”

“I’m guessing he overheard us, went looking for proof. I can’t think of any other reason for him to sneak out in the middle of the night, leaving only a vague note for his mother. He’s never done anything like this before. Culver is devastated.”

“What do we do?”

Because there was no way she would leave him to carry this burden alone.

“We eat,” he stood, still holding her hand. “We sleep. And we wait for instructions from the King and Queen.”

-

Dinner was a subdued affair. Janelle would have preferred the embarrassing innuendos of the night before.

Janelle sat in Duncan’s place again, but the young Princess didn’t object. Culver poked a finger at an orange slice on her plate, not eating anything. At the other end of the table, Prince Curran stared at his plate, hands in his lap, while Theo chewed his food with careful deliberation.

Other than the occasional request to pass the bread, the adults ate in silence.

Janelle and Alan skipped dessert, bowed to the King and Queen, and returned to his study.

“Well,” Alan said, closing the door and heading for his desk, “that was depressing. Shall we see if Dagna sent any cheerful stories along with . . .”

“What is it?” She moved to his side to see what he was staring at.

The  _Lady's Guide_ lay face-up on in the center of his desk, open to an explicit ink illustration of a man reclining in an armless rocking chair as a woman straddled his lap in wild abandon. His mouth was wrapped around one of her breasts, his eyes closed in rapturous pleasure.

_Stella._

“This—is not mine,” Alan choked out, eyes wide and cheeks red.

What was it Stella had said? Alistair might blush himself to death. Perhaps he and Alan were brothers after all.

“I think it’s Stella’s,” Janelle said calmly. “Would you like me to return it to her?”

He whimpered something affirmative, grabbed the book, and handed it to her, eyes averted.

_Okay, this is ridiculous._

She couldn’t help but giggle. “Haven’t you ever read mature literature before, Enchanter Alan?”

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps. But I do not leave it in other people’s workspaces. It’s too personal.”

Good. If he’d said it was trash, she’d have walked out. But if he was interested, it was time for her to let him know she was, too. She gave him a sultry smile.

“Very well, I’ll return it—unless you want to try some of these positions together?”

-

He sputtered. Had Janelle just propositioned him?

“You are familiar with the concept of sex?”

She had.

“I know how it works!” Alan said, tone indignant, though his innards screamed for him to just drag her through the door into his adjoining bedroom. Or down here on the floor. That was nearer.

_What am I, an animal?_

“‘It,’” Janelle chuckled.

“I’m perfectly familiar with the mechanics of sexual intercourse, thank you very much,” he said stiffly.

She bent double, dropping the tome, gripping her knees as great, heaving breaths wracked her body, her laughs escaping like a donkey’s bray.

His spirits sank. She was laughing at him.

“I say,” he blinked at her. “Are you quite all right?”

“Never again,” she gasped. “I’m,” gasp, “wonderful,” gasp, “fabulous . . . I . . .” She laughed some more.

“You appear to be having some kind of fit. Shall I send for a healer?”

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

She grabbed him and kissed him, her spasming diaphragm and humming lips shooting fire through his own body. He crushed her to himself, grinding their hips together.

_Yes! Nownownow._

No, first he had to ask.

He came up for air, holding her tight to his chest. “It’s been a while,” he said. “Ev gave me and my life force the all-clear her last visit.”

She rubbed the tip of her nose back and forth across the front of his robes, like she was enjoying the feel of the soft fabric. The tiny ripples shook him to the core.

“I’ve had my herbs. No health issues to report.”

“Praise Andraste,” he claimed her mouth again, guiding her backward through the door to his bedroom, until the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed.

She dragged him down on top of her as she fell to the coverlet. Her lips never stopped smiling as she kissed his cheeks, his chin, his throat. The damp touch washed away all thoughts but her.

 _Lady’s Guide_ and creative positions forgotten, they grappled with each other, desperate hands and mouths moving, touching everywhere. He raised up on his elbows, grunting when he realized she held him tight with her legs around his middle.

“Clothes,” he rasped out, pulling on her earlobe with his teeth.

She dropped her legs with a frustrated grunt. They yanked off their boots, clothes, and underthings in a flourish of fabric that hit the floor in a heap.

“More,” she pulled him back down and gripped his arse with both hands. “More, Alan.”

“Yes,” he said against her lips, and delved his tongue between. She tasted of red wine and strawberries, the Fade, and something salty. His senses whirled; he couldn’t take it all in at once.

She squeezed his ass again, arching her back to bring them tighter together, though they were already flesh-to-flesh. The movement made his already-hard cock throb against her soft thigh.

Her ample breasts were crushed between them; every heaving breath made them roll against his chest like a wave of pleasure. He nibbled his way down her jaw to her collarbone, leaning left to squeeze his right hand between them and take her breast in hand.

“Yes!” she roughly shoved a hand through his hair, holding his head by her neck, while her other hand stayed tight on his ass. “Alan!”

He rubbed his thumb over her nipple, reveling in her groans. He flicked a fingernail over it, making her gasp.

“Ah-Alan!” she caught his leg between her thighs, rubbed hard against him, already damp and flowing with spicy feminine juices. The scent sparked fire within him and he pinched her pebbled nipple.

“Yes!” she shuddered. “Again!”

With a heady chuckle, he complied, then bent to suckle the hard nub, taking in as much of her breast as he could. Her skin here tasted as sweet as her lips. He’d happily drown in her bosom, never come up for air.

“Alan,” she thrust her hips up, “I can’t wait anymore. Roll over.”

Laughing, he rolled to his back with her tight in his arms, but she pushed up to sit astride his hips, shoving him flat to the bed with one hand to his chest, and guiding his cock between her legs, thrusting herself downward to take him in all at once. The sudden change took his breath away.

He gripped her hips and watched in wonder, taking in deep gulps of air, as she leaned her hands on his shoulders and rode him fast and hard. How had he never noticed the raw power of this dark-haired goddess?

He thrust up as she thrust down. A whine built in the back of her throat and she closed her eyes, shaking her head back and forth like she couldn’t quite find what she wanted.

“Need,” his breaths were as broken as hers, “help?”

She nodded, not slowing her pace. He slipped his hand between them to rub her clit at the same frantic pace she had set with her hips.

“Janelle, kiss me again.”

Not slowing, she opened her eyes and bent down to thrust her tongue in his mouth, crying out as she finally came, a new shudder joining the pistoning of her hips. With a groan between her lips, he tumbled over the edge of release, basking in the trembling waves they made together.

Her movements slowed and she brought her forehead to rest against his. He ran a hand up the side of her ribs, rubbed the back of her neck, enjoying how she stretched and purred at his touch.

“Well,” he said, “that was much more enjoyable than dinner.”

She laughed and rolled off him, snuggling close against his side and placing a quick kiss on his chest, the casual touch throwing his mind into another tailspin. “Give me a few minutes and I might be up for _dessert_. Oh,” she flinched and pressed a hand to her abdomen.

Worry flashed through him. “Did I hurt you?”

“Did you . . . ?” she laughed again. “No, Alan, I’m just a little sore. Pleasantly so.” She wiggled her eyebrows. Something fluttered in his chest in response. “We were a little energetic, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” Maker, his cheeks felt hot. Was he blushing like a novice?

She grinned. “Don’t worry, a little sleep and we’ll be _up_ for some more.”

_Sleep._

The afterglow was suddenly torn from his body. He jumped from bed, closed the door between his bedroom and study, made sure both doors were bolted, and flung down wards against terror and despair demons.

If they came after him tonight, he might not have enough mana to fight them off. He needed to dream.

“Alan, what are you doing?”

-

Turns out coitus with a man was just as satisfying as Dagna’s books had said it would be. It left her more sore than when she pleasured herself, but Janelle wouldn’t mind a second go, once she’d caught her breath.

Alan leapt from bed to bolt the doors. Then started casting wards.

“Alan,” Janelle laughed, “What are you doing?”

“Ward casting.”

“I can see that. What do we need wards for?”

“I don’t want Stella invading our dreams.”

“Would she do that?” her grin didn’t dim.

“She could. Her brother once put lizards in my bed.” His hands continued their quick flicks, laying down layer after layer of wards in all the colors of the rainbow, plus each hue found in the Fade. “The darker green wards deter reptiles.”

“Do you do this every night?” she asked, puzzled.

“Of course. It’s sensible.”

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, but she kept her amused smile in place for his benefit. What was he really worried about? This ritual couldn’t be about Alistair’s parentage. She might not be able to cast them, but she recognized each ward as protection against either mage or demon.

Now was not the time to work him up further about it. They both needed to sleep.

“Alan, luv, come to bed. You’ll be safe with me.”

With a last flick of his wrist, he lay down an ice ward. Alan slid between the sheets, wrapped his muscular arms around her, and kissed her cheek.

“But will you be safe with me?” he whispered, his customary confidence terrifyingly absent.

Her heart quaked again; not for herself, but for him.

She snuggled closer with a happy humming sound, hoping to bring him some peace tonight.

Tomorrow she would get to the bottom of this. And she wouldn’t let him sleep alone until he found peace, even if he kicked her out and she had to sit up all night, each night, in a chair outside his door.


	13. What have I done?

Duncan dreamed he and Georgie bathed together in a freshwater pool in the summer sun. The grass on the lower bank was green and fresh, the water warm. A cheerful, running brook cascaded over the upper bank down over their shoulders, weaving a warm mist around them.

“You taste of strawberries,” Georgie hummed, placing languid kisses on Duncan’s lips, his chin, his throat, chest.

“Georgie.”

“Hmm?”

“I want to touch you.”

“Please do.”

Duncan slid his mist-dampened hands over his love’s shoulders and arms, down into the water.

“Duncan.” Georgie’s hand was dry on his shirt-covered shoulder. “Duncan, it’s time to leave.”

“Whu—”

He found himself in Gran’s bed, looking up at the beatific smile that had captured his heart all those years ago—only they weren’t children anymore, as his dream had made quite clear.

“Gorim’s here. He’s brought horses.”

The reasons behind those words jolted him wide awake. “I’m up.”

“We’re out front.” Georgie left Duncan alone inside the cottage.

Duncan donned his boots and grabbed a quick bite to eat while standing. He peeked out the front window. A dozen people--dwarves and humans--milled around Gran’s gardens, chatting with each other and checking over their riding horses and two horse-drawn merchant carts.

He pulled the hood of his cloak up to shade his face, strapped on his backpack, and stepped out the door into the unknown.

The bright spring sun was high in the sky, making the damp chill bearable.

At Duncan’s appearance at the top of the steps, the merchants and their guards mounted their horses, ready for Gorim to take the lead.

Georgie accepted a kiss from Gran and untethered a pair of horses from the back of Gorim’s cart, a mature Fereldan Forder and sturdy dappled bay.

Gorim at her side, Gran met Duncan at the bottom of the steps for a hug. She kissed Duncan’s cheek, “Safe travels, my son.”

“We will. Thank you for your—”

She placed a wrinkled finger over his lips. “It’s not hospitality when you’re family.”

Speechless, he hugged her again.

“Ser Gorim,” Duncan nodded a formal acknowledgement. He wasn’t as familiar with the weapons merchant as he was with the stationer, but they’d exchanged the occasional word in the marketplace.

Gorim nodded in return. He kept his voice low, “Hurt Georgie, and I hurt you, no matter who your parents are.”

Gran chuckled. Duncan’s respect for the dwarf rose a notch, as did his wariness.

“No one can hurt Georgie,” Duncan matched Gorim’s steely glare. “I’ll kill them if they try.”

“Good.” Gorim smirked, gave him a hard slap on the shoulder, and returned to his horse-drawn cart.

Georgie beckoned Duncan over and handed him the reins of the Forder. “Are you ready?”

“Absolutely. I’d follow you to the edge of the world.”

Georgie replied with a wry smile, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Keeping pace at Georgie’s side, Duncan kept his ears open and his mouth quiet for the next few hours. Their traveling companions all seemed to know the surgeon, and they shared a few polite words with Georgie here and there, but they mostly talked amongst themselves about growing business opportunities in Lothering.

Mid-afternoon, Duncan and Georgie parted ways with Gorim’s company, barely slowing their horses to say farewell.

“I’ll see you in Denerim!” Georgie waved to Gorim and led the way off the worn dirt road, into rough terrain.

They rode slowly along rough fields and small wooded areas. About an hour before dusk, they found a sheltered clearing along a shallow brook that barely made a sound as it flowed past.

The languid water brought a peaceful image to mind: sitting on the bank, paddling his bare feet through the brook, Georgie sitting in front of him, nestled in his arms—

“The nearest farmstead’s three miles that way,” Georgie pointed south and dismounted. “They’ll be abed soon because they’re up before dawn—no one should wander up here.”

Duncan voiced a little grunt of relief when he dismounted.

“You okay?” Georgie asked.

“Bum’s sore, but I’ll be okay in the morning. I haven’t had a long ride since Mom and I snuck out to see Dagna last summer.”

“Is that where you were?”

Duncan paused from unbuckling his saddlebags to look over at Georgie, who was bent over a pile of twigs, coaxing up a fire.

“You noticed I was gone?”

Georgie’s neck and cheeks pinkened and Duncan’s heart did a flub-wub in his chest.

“Are dried rations okay for dinner? I could hunt fresh game tomorrow.”

Duncan let the change of topic slide. For now.

“If it’s even half as good as the jerky your gran served last night, it will be great.”

They groomed the horses, washed their hands and faces in the stream, and set their bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire, before sitting down on their blankets to eat in companionable silence.

The setting sun turned Georgie’s hair into a gleaming halo, prompting Duncan to speak before he thought about what to say.

“I love—I love the cinnamon and sugar Gran packs on this turkey.”

Georgie smiled and packed up the leftovers. “It’s my favorite, too.”

“Yes,” he grinned back, “a meal fit for a king.” It was what his dad always said after a particularly tasty treat.

Georgie’s hands stilled a moment and Duncan wanted to kick himself in the arse. _Really? Really, Duncan? Did you have to—_

“We should leave at dawn. I didn’t sleep much last night, Your Highness. Do you mind taking the first watch?”

_Of course not! What I mind is how you push me away._

More angry at himself than his travel companion, Duncan swallowed his disappointment.

“I’d be happy to, Georgie. Sleep well.”

Georgie nodded and curled up, facing the setting sun instead of him.

-

The second day went much like the first, except they were on their way by dawn, they didn’t see any other people, and Duncan refrained from sticking is royal boot in his mouth. Georgie resumed calling him by name instead of title, but didn’t smile much, and—after shooting, skinning, and stewing a brace of coneys—again went to bed before sunset.

The third day of their journey, Georgie suggested they eat dinner at a village pub.

Duncan hesitated. “What if someone knows who we are?”

“I’m more likely to be recognized here than you, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Then we could ride on in the dark for another hour, make camp away from prying eyes.”

“Okay.” His desire for easily-acquired, hot food overcame his preference for complete secrecy. And he liked camping alone with Georgie.

He’d never been here before; dressed as he was, he doubted anyone who’d seen him at a distance in Denerim would recognize him after a few dirty days on the road.

Duncan left his hood up and remained a few steps back while Georgie approached the barkeep, a busty redhead who filled orders with the efficiency of a war strategist. And all the warmth of one.

“Lager?” she asked.

“Cider, please, for me and for my friend,” Georgie grinned, and the barkeep’s expression warmed.

She gave Georgie a slow look-over, spared Duncan a quick, uninterested glance. Her tone turned overly friendly. “And perhaps something warm after a cold day of travel?”

Duncan didn’t like how Georgie leaned forward and bantered back.

“Sounds good. What’s on the menu?”

The barkeep gave a breathless laugh and leaned over the counter, offering a view down her bodice. “Meat pies, fresh from the oven. I’ll serve you myself.”

Georgie’s gravelly chuckle seemed to have the same stimulating effect on the redhead as it did him. Duncan’s irritation grew.

They claimed a small table and draped their cloaks over their chair backs.

“Thanks, luv,” Georgie gave the barkeep a wink when she delivered the cider pitcher and steaming plates. Neither of them noticed Duncan’s scowl.

“Ah, food I don’t have to skin, and a clean mug ‘o beer instead of a water skin,” Georgie poured mugs for them both and took a bite of pie. “Life is good.”

Yes, life was good, and here he was sulking like a petulant child—a petulant _prince_ —because not everyone acted or felt the way he did. When had he become such a boor?

Duncan started in on his own meal—it was good, no matter what his opinion of the proprietor—and resolved to return to friendly chats about Tethras’ latest novel, or maybe dwarven healing lore. The things they talked about together whenever they met in Denerim.

Denerim. Home.

Home might not be home if someone got to Fiona before they did. Was anyone else looking? If they were caught—if a Landsmeet beheaded him for being an elf-blood with designs on the throne, what would happen to Georgie?

Duncan set down his knife and fork, swallowing his last bite with difficulty.

_Maker, what have I done?_


	14. Someone special

Georgie hadn’t missed Duncan’s glare at the barkeep.

_Andraste’s tits, man, keep your attitude in check or we’ll never get the information we need._

Perhaps not telling Duncan the plan ahead of time had been a poor decision.

Then Duncan went from looking jealous, to looking ill. The kind of ill noncombatants looked when encountering corpses and the not-yet-dead on a bloody battlefield. He pushed his plate aside, face white as a bleached bone.

Time for a distraction.

“You’re a scholar, right?”

Duncan’s color returned. His lips quirked sexily and he showed his top row of teeth in an amused half-smile. “Yes.”

“Think you can get that group in the corner to talk to you?” Georgie surreptitiously gave a sideways nod toward a table apart from the others, the pub patrons half-covered in moving, fire-lit shadows. Three human men and an elven youth wearing a cap to hide their ears.

Duncan didn’t even send a covert glance their way; he observed enough through his peripheral vision. Maybe he’d be a good spy after all.

“Sure,” he sipped his cider. “What will we discuss?”

“Casually drop the phrase ‘pink turnips.’ I’m going to chat up the barkeep.”

His smile faded. “Is she someone special to you?”

Maker, _why_ did the Prince have to be so sweet and caring? If he’d been an ass, it would be easier.

_I cannot have him. Andraste, guide me. We must part when this is over. I’ll even move to the Anderfels, if it be your will._

“We need information, Duncan. I don’t plan to bed her. I’m not that kind of bard.”

He looked horrified. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to suggest you were—not that there’s anything wrong with—I mean—oh!”

Never in twenty-four years had Georgie seen anything as alluring as Prince Duncan’s blush.

_I’m doomed._

“I’m sorry,” Duncan said. “It’s not my business.

“Anyway,” he straightened and all evidence of his embarrassment vanished, “What else do we need to learn from these scholars?”

The next half-hour was extremely boring, sitting at the bar, flirting with the barkeep between customers while Duncan appeared to be deep in a fascinating discussion about rune crafting. At one point, someone casually handed Duncan a folded piece of parchment, which he tucked into a pocket without turning away from his conversation on the other side of the table. Five minutes later, he rose, bowed to his companions, who raised their mugs in return, and strolled out the front door alone.

The barkeep was facing away from the door, making change for a beardless dwarf, so Georgie left a handful of coppers on the counter and slipped out after Duncan, who stood ready with both of their horses.

“Lead the way,” he said, handing over the reins, that sexy callous on his third finger sliding down the back of Georgie’s hand.

They rode slow and silent in a general south-east direction, trusting the horses’ instincts about the terrain, and made camp in a stand of trees bordering an abandoned quarry. Duncan settled the horses while Georgie dug a small pit in the dirt for their fire.

“What did the elf hand you?”

“Yolissa.”

“Pardon?”

“You never got her name? She remembers you. The elf in the very pretty hat is Yolissa, formerly of the College.”

He hadn’t meant it as an insult, but it stung that the ethereal beauty had trusted Duncan with her name, even though Georgie had done business with her before and never earned that honor.

“Pretty hat?”

“It’s embroidered with the trees of Mythal. So many, so intricate, that it’s difficult to discern where the green and gold threads begin and end . . . like—like living fabric,” he breathed out in amazement. “It’s wondrous.”

 _Wondrous._ Now Georgie was more irritated with Duncan than the elf. Not that the Prince couldn’t be enamored with any man or woman he wanted. To be jealous was ridiculous.

“Did the bearer of this wondrous hat have anything useful to say?”

“She slipped me a map while her brothers in academia regaled me with tales of the Inquisitor,” he pulled the parchment from his pocket and handed it over.

“Really?” Georgie laughed and unfolded the map. “They figured out who you were?”

“Oh, I don’t think the men did.” He smiled. “But I’m certain Yolissa knew exactly to whom she was speaking. I introduced myself as Aidan.”

“A Marcher name?”

“It was the closest clue I could give without directly revealing my mother’s identity. It was like . . .”

“It was like . . . ?”

“Like she knew I’d be coming before I did.”

Not for the first time, Georgie wondered if Duncan’s mum hid in the shadows just beyond their campfire. It was an unnerving thought.

“Let’s look at it,” Duncan scooted over and leaned in with one hand flat on the ground behind Georgie, putting them shoulder-to-shoulder. The warm touch wiped all coherent thought from the surgeon’s mind. “Is it a place you recognize?”

“Um, maybe . . .” It was a simple ink drawing with no names or notes. “Yes, this grouping of streams is off a farmstead I know in the middle of the Bannorn. Maybe another day’s ride south, south-west.”

“Isn’t that a fairly flat area? I thought your gran said Fiona was hiding in a cave.”

“I think your Yolissa was guiding you toward someone who knows Fiona’s exact location.” They sat in silence, staring down at the map, arms touching.

“Duncan, I’m sorry I didn’t explain what I was about before we went into the pub. You needed all the intel and I left you in the dark.”

“She’s not my Yolissa.”

Georgie turned to find Duncan closer than he’d ever been. Their noses almost touched. Breath mingled. Their lips almost—

Georgie slowly turned away and rose, folding up the map. “It’s my turn to take first watch.”

“Okay.”

He was agreeable and easy to lead, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate Duncan. He could barge into the clinic any time he wished, sneak out of an armored fortress, and fell the Herald in the ring—Georgie had seen it from Stella’s window. In thirty minutes he extracted more information from complete strangers than a bard could manage in a year of playing the Game.

Duncan moved to his own bedroll and pulled off his boots.

“Did you let her down easy?” he asked, settling on his back and pulling the blankets to his chin.

So they were back to discussing the ginger barkeep. Sarah, she’d called herself.

“I slipped out in the night.”

Duncan sighed drowsily. “I think I’d rather know, than be left wondering.”

The urge to cuddle up next to him and confess everything was a chest-crushing pang.

It was dark, late. No insects chirped. No rodents or predators disturbed the dry grasses that yearned for more spring rains.

Georgie spent the entirety of the first watch watching Duncan sleep.


	15. Pancakes and gin (A Mabari named Mabari)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’m not a medical professional and everything in this story is fiction.

Waking in Alan’s arms was worth the awkward elbows and fitful sleep. Janelle hadn’t pegged him for a cuddler, but there he was, wrapped around her, feet over hers, his lips practically brushing her forehead as he breathed lightly in and out.

His beautiful eyelashes were thick and black as fresh ink. How many others had enjoyed the privilege of waking up with this view of him? Did they pine for him now, as she had? Would she ever be . . .

_Nope, not going there._

Here was a moment of happy. Before and after would be what they would be.

She feathered a kiss on his cheek and tried to ease from his grasp, which he tightened. “Stay.”

“I’ve got—”

“Later,” he mumbled, rolling over on top of her, sleepily nibbling on her neck. His stubble along her skin was another new experience she didn’t want to miss.

Yes, she was definitely on board for this kind of morning.

“Well, if you’re awake,” she smoothed her hand down the center of his trembling belly, reveling in his warmth. She nibbled on his earlobe, and whispered, “I’m awake, too.”

He groaned her name and went on to prove he was just as talented with languid lovemaking as he’d been with their wild coupling last night.

An hour later, he was dozing again.

She pulled the quilt up to his chin. The purple circles under his eyes had not faded as they’d slept. She’d ask him about it today.

Janelle pulled on yesterday’s rumpled enchanter’s robes, picked up her boots, and returned to her bedroom—where Stella sat in a chair, bare feet propped up on Janelle’s bed.

“Well?” the curvy redhead asked.

“Well what?”

Stella pointed to a steaming breakfast tray that sat on the bed by her feet. “Is this a pancakes story, or a pancakes and gin story?”

Janelle laughed tossed her boots into a corner. “Oh, I’m not sure I should share. It’s a doozy.”

Stella jumped to her feet. “Doozy calls for boozy. Hurry up and make yourself presentable, so we can run up to my office, while these pancakes are still hot.”

Janelle changed, combed her hair, and washed her face in record time, and followed Stella up to her tower office.

Stella set the breakfast tray down on the floor by the bookcase and hunkered down to dig behind the books on the bottom shelf.

“What are you—”

“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha, there it is.” She pulled out a square bottle of clear gin and two glasses, and sat on the floor with her back against the bookcase.

_This. This is real friendship. Breakfast on the floor._

Stella beamed up at her, red hair shining like magic fire in the morning sunlight that filled the round room. Her simple daily enchanter’s robes and bare feet were as beautiful as the moment was sweet.

“Come,” she patted the floor. “Tell me of your new lover.”

Janelle laughed and sat, accepting two fingers of gin and a plate with pancakes and sausage.

“Well, he’s someone you know.”

“Do tell.”

Between bites and sips, Janelle told Stella about her trip to the Wonders of Thedas with Alan; how Alan had stepped between her and some Orlesian Templars; and invited her back to his study after dinner only to find Stella’s shocking “present.”

“And?” Stella grinned.

“And then,” Janelle snorted into her glass, “Then he says: ‘I’m perfectly familiar with the mechanics of sexual intercourse, thank you very much.’”

Stella thunked her head back against the bookcase, laughing wildly, just as her husband and son came in.

Rollie took one look at the two of them on the floor, took Theo by the shoulders, and turned him right back around and out the door.

“But, Daa-aad, what’s so funny?”

“We don’t want to know, son.”

Stella sniggered. “He’ll ask me about it as soon as we’re alone.”

“Rollie, or Theo?”

“Both. Don’t worry, I’ll give my son a very edited version. But Rollie and I share everything, you know.”

“Of course.”

She hadn’t thought about asking her to keep it secret, and Janelle trusted Stella not to make it weird. At the College, no one had much privacy, but no one was an ass, either.

“So, was he hot and heavy, or sweet and gentle?”

“Wild at night, sweet in the morning.”

“Ah,” Stella sighed. “My favorite.”

 “Your Majesty,” Rollie’s voice echoed down the hall.

Janelle’s breath froze in her chest. Rollie seeing her drinking on the floor before lunch was one thing, but they had about two seconds before—

“Good morning!” Stella smiled brightly as Queen Margaret opened her office door. The rogue wore prowler armor covered with mud from the sparring ring.

“Good morning,” the Queen replied, bending over to pull a bag of frozen beans from the ice chest. “Alistair needs one of these, if I may.” She straightened, tossing the bag back and forth between her bare hands, “Ooh, that’s cold!”

“Need me to make more?”

“This should do for now,” she glanced at their makeshift breakfast tray and smiled. “As you were.” She left and closed the door.

Janelle sighed and leaned back again next to Stella, who hadn’t straightened at all. It would probably be another hour before her heart stopped kicking her in the throat and settled back down into her chest.

“What should we do now?” Stella asked. “Go for a walk? Ride? I don’t have any potions to make today, and Margie’s not due for a treatment for another few days.”

Janelle raised her glass. “Then let’s just remain as we are. I’m quite comfortable right here.”

-

Alan missed Janelle already. He wandered the halls like a lost novice, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He didn’t find her in her study or the fortress’ common library, and, after the _Lady’s Guide_ incident, he didn’t want to wander up to Stella’s office.

The third time he passed Hill in the front hall, the Steward raised an eyebrow. Alan blushed and scurried back to his own study.

_Damn, I could have asked him if he’d seen her._

Alan tried transcribing the elven translations—his first read-through had been a fast and desperate search with little writing—but he couldn’t focus. After thirty minutes of staring at the same page, he rubbed a hand over his face, pausing when his clammy fingers came into contact with his hot forehead.

He was feverish.

Alan got up and went in his bedroom to look in the mirror. The white of his eyes had a yellow tinge, and his collar was soaked with sweat.

_Fuck me._

Heart pounding faster than his feet could walk, he made straight for the healer’s clinic in the marketplace. When he entered, the sight that greeted him made him temporarily forget why he was there.

A sleek, muscular tan dog with square head, black nose, and brown eyes jumped up from where she lay under the kitchen table and scampered over, whining and butting her head under his hand for a pat.

“Who’s this?”

“Mabari.” Healer James sat at his equipment table in front of the fire, drying his hands on a cloth.

“I know she’s a Mabari. What’s her name?”

“Mabari is her name—she won’t answer to anything else. Stowed away in Gorim’s cart his last trip and imprinted on me as soon as they reached Denerim. The Teyrn sent word I could keep her—not that I’d asked permission—as long as she’d never be abandoned.” He snorted, “As if I would do such a thing. I’ll not give her up.”

Mabari whined and tried to climb up into Alan’s lap, even though he was still standing, then fell to the floor and wriggled on her back, kicking her powerful back legs, begging for a belly rub. Alan bent to give her solid chest a few tentative pats.

“I didn’t know war dogs were so friendly.”

James chuckled. “Mabari love their people. She’ll kiss your face for an hour straight, if you let her. Her brother would, too, though he’s off at Highever.”

“No thanks. Where’s Cat?” James’ gray mouser liked to curl up on patients’ laps during consultations.

“Cat’s sulking off behind the laundry bins. Mabari wants to play with him, but he sniffs and turns his back.”

The healer tossed his towel in a basket under the work table. “You look like shit, Alan.”

“That your professional opinion, James?”

“Yeah, have a seat.”

Alan sat on a short wooden stool while James pulled potion-filled glass jars and short, empty glass bowls from the shelves. Mabari sat on Alan’s foot and leaned heavily against his knee, staring up at him with liquid brown eyes.

Alan gave her massive skull another tentative pat and she sat up on her hind legs, like she was ready to pounce.

_Please don’t eat me._

“Um, what’s she doing?”

“She wants you to hold her.” James sat down opposite him.

“Impossible. She’s got to be seventy pounds.”

“Sixty-five.”

“Oh? Is that all?”

“Sorry, luv,” James told the dog, “go lay down.”

With a sigh, Mabari removed her rump from Alan’s foot and nosed her way past the thin curtain separating the sleeping area from the exam area. She leapt up on the bed, walked in three circles, and plopped down with a harrumph.

Alan warily watched the lumpy shadow on the other side of the curtain, to see if she’d stay.

“No worries. Open up.”

“What—oh.” Alan opened his mouth wide for the healer to look down his throat.

“Ew. Here,” he handed Alan one of the small glass dishes, “Spit in this.”

“Spit?”

“Unless you want me to swipe at the back of your throat with a stick and scrap of fabric.”

“I’ll spit.”

James set the dish on the worktable, dripped a few droplets of clear fluid onto it from a potion bottle, and turned back to poke at Alan’s tender stomach and ribs.

“How long has your stomach hurt?”

“It didn’t until you poked.”

“Can you swallow?”

Alan tried. “Feels swollen and chalky, but I was fine at breakfast.”

“You only felt fine.”

James sniffed. “Holy shit, Alan, your cortisol levels smell high enough to kill a darkspawn. When was your last nightmare?”

“You can _smell_ —”

“Don’t question my methods, just answer my question.”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Fuck. Your last dream?”

“Ten days.”

James growled and Mabari popped her head up to look. “No more. You will end up dead, and probably let something slip before you do.”

“Ye-ah, I did some damage the other night by talking out of turn.”

That was an understatement; his brother had threatened to kill him and bury his body in the garden. And witch or no witch, Duncan might not have run off if Alan hadn’t opened his mouth. Who knows what Morrigan would have said otherwise.

“What’s Stella say?”

“About what?”

“How you’re not dreaming properly.”

“I haven’t told her.”

“Do so, as soon as I’m done with you—or I’m knocking you out and dragging your unconscious form to her.”

The clinic door swung open and Alan frowned as Stella entered the one-room cottage. The dog-shaped shadow on the bed sat up, solid tail whap-whap-whapping on the bedspread.

“No time like the present,” James muttered, then called out, “Hey, Stella.”

“Don’t glower, Alan,” she said. “This is a public clinic. If you want privacy, have the healer pull the second curtain.”

James smiled and shook his head.

“Where’s my girl?” Stella asked.

With a woof, Mabari the Mabari ran from the bed, plowed through her curtain, and leapt up into Stella’s arms. The Enchanter laughed and sank to her knees, then sat on her bottom as the dog slobbered all over her face. Stella settled the dog belly up in her arms, like a nursemaid would nurse an infant, and started thumping a heavy hand on the dog’s chest—the loud echo of it made Alan flinch.

“She likes that?” Alan asked.

“Of course. And if you stop . . .” Stella stilled her hand and Mabari squirmed and whined. “Do this for about twenty-five or thirty minutes, and she’ll be ready for a nap.”

He’d take her word for it.

“James,” Stella said, “pearl merchant says Gorim’s off with the caravan for a few weeks. You need any gathering day help? I’ve got a friend visiting from the College library; we could assist.” She looked to Alan, lips twitching and eyes twinkling while she lovingly pounded on the chest of the gentle beast in her arms. “Though she might be otherwise occupied.”

James sat up straighter. “Friend? What friend?”

“Enchanter Janelle.”

“Oh!” James clapped his hands together with glee. “I haven’t seen her since Dagna’s winter banquet. Janelle is a lovely woman. I’d be honored if you two would accompany me on gathering day.”

Red flashed across Alan’s vision, and he didn’t think before speaking terse words. “Janelle has plans.”

“Ah,” James nodded, turned to peer at the dish Alan had spit into. He picked up a pink potion bottle and handed it to Alan. “Then she’ll need some of this. Two tablespoons for each of you, thrice daily for ten days. Do _not_ stop taking it before then.”

“Why?”

James crossed his arms. “Did you or did you not snog each other last night? Very thoroughly?”

Stella buried her face in the Mabari’s neck, but couldn’t fully muffle her giggles.

“We, uh—well, yeah. We’re . . . ” What were they doing? Starting a relationship? Having a fling? “ . . . spending time together.”

“If you’ve been spending time together, sharing cups and whatnot, you’ve likely already shared that highly-contagious bacterial strain you’ve growing on your tonsils.”

Of course. Totally sensible. Ever since he’d impulsively kissed Janelle’s cheek outside Stella’s office two nights ago, sensible had been missing from his thoughts.

Alan repeated the dosage instructions back to the healer and stuck the bottle in his pocket.

“I’ll heal what I can,” James said, “help keep your throat from scarring, but you’ll never get fully better without a Dreamer.”

“What’s that?” Stella stopped cooing over the dog. “You’re having trouble you haven’t told me about, Alan?”

“I’m sorry, Stella. I tried to do it on my own.” That was a mistake he hoped never to repeat.

“Let’s take care of my part first,” James gave Alan’s knee a reassuring pat. “Then you two can sort it out at home.”

Relieved beyond words, heart lighter than it’d been in years, Alan blinked away a tear and nodded.

The men stood, each with his left hand gripping the other’s shoulder, right hands joined in a fist between them, arms flush against each other. They weren’t going to arm wrestle in midair: it was a stance Alan had developed for working with Alistair’s tainted life force, and James had adopted it for fighting other infections.

Healer Evelyn’s treatment had been more civilized: she’d sat with Alistair, holding his hands, extricating his life force from the taint. Though deft with a surgeon’s scalpel and quick to pierce when necessary, she was also a gentle healer who pruned at the taint with precise diligence.

Before leaving the King’s service, Ev had suggested Alistair increase the frequency of his treatments from once to twice per week. Instead, when Alan went in, he was in full war mode—and Alistair was still thriving with weekly treatments.

“I’m no healer; I’m a warrior,” was one of the first things he’d said to the King, a stranger who had no idea Alan might be his brother. “I feel your life force. I can damage your life force.” He’d rudely conjured a wild fireball in his hand to show off his power, and Alistair had just laughed, gold eyes flashing, not offended in the slightest.

“Good. I’m a warrior, too. Let’s fight this taint together, shall we?”

Alan wondered if their mother had ever been so confident.

Now his fever-flushed skin coursed with molten fire. Eyes closed, legs trembling, he focused on his connection with the healer, guiding James’ magic with his own to find millions of little foreign organisms that coursed through his own blood. Magic tingled in electric waves across his face, down his throat.

“Flames!” he gasped out in pain when a hot wave of energy roared down his throat, burning away the infection.

“Let’s hope it’s enough,” James stepped back, keeping his hand on Alan’s shoulder until he was sure Alan was steady on his feet.

“Here.” Alan opened his eyes to find Stella offering him a wooden cup filled with ice chips.

“Thanks,” he rasped out, taking the cup and sinking back down on his stool. “To both of you.”

The dog slunk over and sat on his foot again, placed her chin on his knee with a mournful look. “You too, Mabari.” He smoothed a hand down the ridge of her skull. She wagged her tail with a whap, whap, whap on the wood floor.

Then another patient arrived, so Alan and Stella made their farewells and headed back to the fortress.

“‘Sharing cups,’” Stella snorted, closing the clinic door behind her. “More like, ‘knocking boots.’”

“We didn’t wear boots,” Alan deadpanned.

What was wrong with him? It was such an Alistair thing to say. He held his breath, braced for Stella’s reaction.

She stopped to look at him, eyes wide. “You—oh, Alan,” she laughed. “You do have a sense of humor.”


	16. Dreamless mage, gloveless Herald

Alan sat up against the pillows of his bed, watching Stella rummage through a satchel of supplies she’d brought down from her office.

“How does the space feel in your Fade connection?” she asked.

“The channel’s narrowed, the pathway small and angular, like a maze, with a lot of dead ends. On the rare occasion I can dream, it’s inky blackness.”

“We can fix that.” From her bag, Stella pulled a lyrium amulet and bracers. They gave off a clear blue glowing light. “Here, put these on.”

“What are you trying to do, poison me?”

“It’s safe: there’s a silver coating over it, so you won’t get burned. I’m going to plow through the blocks in your Fade connection and you’ll need more mana to keep up.”

“Should we ask Janelle—”

“No! You’d pull her under like a drowning man.”

“You ever done this before?” In all his research, he’d never come across an account of a Dreamer “fixing” someone’s Fade connection.

“Once, for a Dreamer who was so scared of Templars, he refused to sleep unless his body forced him to.” She paused. “He didn’t make it.”

Alan swallowed, the fear creeping back up his spine. “But I will.”

“Yes, Alan, I believe you will.”

He put on the amulet and bracers, skin tingling with the sudden rush of mana. She pulled his desk chair over to the bed and sat by his side, offering her hand. He took it without hesitation.

“My mana is yours,” he said.

She took three breaths in and out, whispered “Connor,” and pulled Alan into the Fade.

It was a lovely little brown-and-green clearing, as big as his study, consisting of a simple stone circular floor and watery green walls, like glass filled with moving green water. After all his pinched dreams, it felt downright roomy.

“Alan, this is tiny.” His friend Stella stood by his side, holding his hand, eyes wide with surprise.

He chuckled. “Better than usual, actually. I think we’ll succeed.”

“Of course we will,” Connor appeared, holding Stella’s other hand. “We’ve Thedas’ most talented Dreamer at our side.”

“Grand Enchanter,” Alan nodded a greeting.

“Alan. Dagna sends her greetings, to you and to Janelle.”

Stella gave a little cough and turned her head so Connor wouldn’t see her smile. “I’m going to release your hands, but I’ll only be a Fade Step away, if things go to shit, okay?”

“Okay,” Alan let his hand drop and was pleased to find himself quite comfortable on his own. He couldn’t remember the Fade ever feeling so . . . welcoming.

“Connor and I will step past your wall, patrol the perimeter for demons while you grow your space. If you get stuck, I’ll know and be there. If you want one or both of us, just call out.”

“Thanks, Stella,” he laughed. Maybe the lyrium amulet had made him giddy, like a pain potion. Did everyone feel happy in the Fade? It was a novel experience. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Oh, and we’ll be able to, um, _hear_ everything.”

Alan laughed again. If he was going to dream about Janelle, he definitely wouldn’t want Connor and Stella there. “Got it.”

Connor and Stella stepped through the wall of green glass like it was air and vanished from sight, though he could still feel their life force nearby.

_I think I’ll start with a walk._

At the thought, the walls melted away into the sun-lit gardens of the Fortress. Everything was a bit brighter and livelier than reality: all the flowers were fresh, all seasons’ growing together at once. Alan followed the familiar paths, enjoying the dream sun and earthy scents, until he reached the outer garden wall—thick, gray stone rose up, barring his path, but he walked through it and it disappeared in a gray mist.

“Yes,” he whispered with a smile, “I can do this.”

He wandered green hills and forests, walked past bubbling brooks and quiet farmsteads. He caught a glimpse of the College in the distance, but decided he wanted to see what lay over the other horizon. So he turned and ambled that way.

Yet he didn’t encounter the edge of the world. He was no longer trapped in a maze of boundaries. All his walls in the Fade were gone.

Was this the freedom other mages felt all the time? It was glorious.

A contented sleepiness weighed down his limbs.

“I think I’d like to sleep, now.”

“Then sleep,” Stella’s voice came to him. “And we’ll keep watch.”

His bed appeared next to him on the grassy hillock and he climbed in, drifting out of his dreams into a deep and restful sleep.

-

Stella set a breakfast tray on Alan’s lap and sat back down in the chair by his bed. The pancakes had too much syrup, but they would do, and the tea was strong and hot.

“Now,” she said, “Are you going to treat Janelle better than you did at the College?”

Confused, he set his cup aside. “Pardon?”

“Alan, you were so obtuse, it wouldn’t have mattered if she walked into your office naked and jumped you.”

That alarmingly delicious image quickened his pulse. And it was similar to what had actually happened in the room next door.

Stella continued, “Back then, you didn’t know how to care for people. More accurately, you ass, you didn’t _want_ to know. You paid no attention to other people’s thoughts and needs—only your own ends.”

“I . . .”

She was right. Hadn’t he been irritated when Stella married? That was it: irritation. Because he’d seen the logic of their pairing and she’d stymied his careful plans. There hadn’t been any heart involved.

And barely any respect.

A wave of shame washed over him. If he’d pursued Stella for a marriage of convenience before she’d met Rollie, she might have said yes, and never known her own passion for life.

Alan had liked her then. He loved her now, and Rollie and Theo. They were part of his Denerim family.

“Thank you, Stella. A verbal arse-kicking is what I needed.”

“Of course. Now, _bathe_ before you go looking for her. And steal some of your brother’s flowers for her, too.”

“My . . .” he gaped at her. Apparently, she knew _all_ of his secrets.

Stella winked and sashayed out the door.

-

Wicked Grace with the Queen. Despite Connor’s stories, Janelle hadn’t thought she’d ever play Wicked Grace with Fereldan royalty.

“I fold,” Rolle said.

Stella took the pot and the Queen dealt a new round with swift precision. “Hey, Alan,” she called out without looking up.

Janelle’s breath caught in her throat. She sat up straighter, looking for him.

There he was, a fistful of fresh spring wildflowers in hand, smiling brighter than she’d ever seen him, as he strode down the rose-bordered paths toward where they sat on the veranda. The purple circles under his eyes were gone and he was even more beautiful than he’d been when they were at the College.

He walked directly up to her seat; the sweet, colorful bouquet filled her vision.

“Are those for me?” she asked with a smile. He didn’t answer, so she looked up.

Alan was staring dumbly at the Queen.

“Alan, are you feeling ill?” From what Stella had told her, he’d done some serious magic last night. Perhaps he wasn’t fully recovered.

“The Mark—” he couldn’t get more words out.

The Queen discarded. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, Alan.”

“The _Mark_ —” he said again.

Stella dropped her cards on the table and grabbed the Queen’s wrist, causing Rollie to raise an eyebrow.

The Queen laughed. “I wondered how long it would take you to notice.”

“When— _how_?!” Stella demanded.

“Guess,” the Queen smiled.

“Morrigan,” Alan said. “When she kissed your cheek, she took the anchor.”

Janelle was dumbfounded. “ _Lady Morrigan_ was the Witch you talked to the other night? That’s the last time I decline an invitation to tea, however late the hour.”

Stella dropped the Queen’s hand. “Wait, Janelle, you _knew_ a Witch of the Wilds had been in the Fortress? When were you all going to tell me?”

“I win,” Rollie set his cards face up on the table and his wife groaned, hiding her face in her hands.


	17. His Royal Highness

Duncan had proven surprisingly sure-footed as he walked across rough country beside Georgie on the way to Gran’s. Nobles and city folk, even seasoned travelers trained in combat, tended to have trouble in the dark.

And then there was the easy way he’d sweet-talked the elf into giving him the map.

What other talents did the Prince possess?

He looked like a sun-kissed king upon his proud Fereldan Forder. She tossed her mane and he patted her neck.

What would it be like to have his hands caress your throat? To have him lay you down in sweet grasses and—

“I hear water.”

Duncan’s comment drew Georgie out of ridiculous daydreams, back to their current need: somewhere to fill their water skins.

“This way,” he pointed left, toward the tree line they’d been riding along since mid-morning. Duncan dismounted with the grace of a bard and led the way forward on foot.

“Oh, this is lovely. Georgie, look.”

It was lovely indeed. A small clearing surrounded by fresh green trees stretching as far as the eye could see. Through the trees meandered a thin stream that emptied into a clean pond.

Duncan’s horse shouldered past him, making the Prince stumble toward the water, and bent to drink.

“Easy, Pegasus,” he laughed. “I don’t want to take a swim with all my clothes on.”

_How about with your clothes off?_

No, no. Not a safe comment to make.

After the horses had been watered and left loose to graze, Duncan and Georgie squatted down to fill their own water skins.

Once filled, Duncan set his aside and used both his hands to scoop water up to his mouth. “It tastes sweet. Almost like vanilla.”

His soft pink lips curved in half-smile. Pure water droplets clung to his scruffy stubble, inviting a taste.

_Fuck. Was I staring? Did he notice?_

Duncan’s smile grew. He’d noticed.

“Should I grow a beard, do you think?” Duncan rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“I like it when your stubble’s fresh—I mean—uh, I like you clean-shaven—uh . . . it’s your face, Duncan. Do whatever’s comfortable to you. You look good no matter what—”

_How could I possibly make this conversation any more embarrassing?_

Pegasus gave a whinny that might have been a laugh and Georgie glared at her.

“Come on,” Georgie abruptly stood. “If we ride a good pace, we should make the farmstead within a few hours.”

It was a fairly quiet ride, except Duncan periodically whistled an annoyingly cheerful tune, completely unperturbed by Georgie’s hurried pace and lack of conversation.

Then they reached Mark and William’s farmstead.

-

Duncan wondered how Georgie knew of this farm. Were the farmers friends? Or were they riding into hostile territory?

When the property came into view, Georgie slowed to give the residents plenty of time to hear their horses’ approach.

When they reached the mouth of the lane, a solitary man stepped out from the barn. He was human, but as tall and broad as paintings of the Arishok. He held a sword and shield in a neutral stance. His expression revealed nothing.

“I’ll leave this one to the bard,” Duncan brought his horse to a halt two steps before Georgie did.

Georgie dismounted and took a single step forward. “Hello, Mark.”

The farmer broke into a wide grin. “Georgie!” He sheathed his sword, propped his shield against the barn wall, and strode over for a crushing hug. “Welcome home.”

Georgie laughed, “Denerim’s home. Always has been. Always will be.

“This is Aidan,” Georgie half-turned to introduce Duncan, but the farmer kept one arm around the surgeon’s waist.

_Well, that won’t do._

Duncan narrowed his eyes and Mark dropped his arm, but his smile widened. “Honored to make your acquaintance, Aidan.”

“And yours.” Duncan remained in his saddle.

“There’s fresh hay and a few empty stalls in the barn, if you’d like to groom and rest your mounts. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Thanks,” Georgie’s wide smile darkened Duncan’s mood further. “We’ll be in shortly.”

When Georgie had finished grooming Páme, Duncan was absently running a brush through Pegasus’ already-clean mane.

“You okay?”

_No._

He knew it wasn’t his imagination. Georgie _had_ been eyeing him appreciatively at the pond. Maybe the hug with Mark had meant nothing more than friendship—to Georgie.

“He had his arm around you.” Duncan watched the brush pass through his horse’s sleek brown mane. Each strand of hair was gorgeous.

“Is that what’s bugging you?” Georgie laughed. “He’s my friend, Duncan. It didn’t mean anything more.”

Stomach trembling with trepidation, Duncan paused his brushing and looked up. “It meant more to him.”

“Whatever,” Georgie scoffed. “Let’s go in while the tea’s still hot.”

A few minutes later, they were settled at the kitchen table.

“What’s Gran planting this year?” Mark poured Duncan’s tea first.

“Carrots, pink turnips, embrium, the usual.”

“Ah, Gran will have to watch them closely and not overwater—or they’ll be gone soon.”

Duncan added sugar to his cup with enough force to spill over the edge. This conversation was as bad as tea with his mother and Dagna.

“Can we stop with the food code?” Duncan asked. “What do you mean they’ll be gone soon? Is she in danger?”

Instead of asking “she who?” Mark smiled that irritating smile again and added honey to his tea. “She’s in no more danger than she ever was. The move isn’t planned for another month or two, but if she got wind that you’re on her trail . . . does she know you’re looking for her?”

“We don’t know,” Duncan sipped his steaming tea. It was the best tea he’d ever had, blast it. How was he to remain irritated with a polite host who made perfect tea?

_He had his arm around Georgie._

Still, his parents hadn’t raised a barbarian. Duncan knew how to make polite conversation at tea.

“You run this farm by yourself? That must be . . .”

“Lonely? Worried I’ve no one to warm my bed?”

 _Dear Dagna!_ Was he flirting with him?

“Mark,” Georgie warned and Mark laughed.

“My husband and our daughter are off trading supplies in Lothering. Fields are too wet to work in right now. They’ll be back in a week or two.

“If William cuddled with anyone else, I’d skin him, so I suppose the same rule applies to me. Your virtue’s safe with me.

“In fact,” he set his cup aside. “I’m your ally. Let me show you something.”

Mark led the way into the adjoining pantry.

“Is this why you’ve never let me help make dinner?” Georgie asked.

“Yes, Gran’s orders. But pink turnips got you access.”

A large map of Thedas filled the center of one wall. On either side were hung little oval portraits of Fiona, the Theirins, College folk, and faces Duncan didn’t recognize, though many appeared to be wearing Grey Warden or Inquisition uniforms.

Duncan recognized his own face and leaned in for a closer look. He was grinning like his father, the gold chain holding his Trevelyan signet ring loose outside the collar of his tunic. It was an artist’s copy of his twentieth-birthday portrait. It was a very untraditional pose and the original hadn’t been hung anywhere the general citizenry could see it.

He shuddered, “Well, that’s creepy.”

“No offense intended, Your Highness.”

No point in pretending to be “Aidan” now.

“Did you paint all these portraits?”

“No, and pink turnips aren’t enough to get you more on that.”

“Are you really a farmer?”

“ _Duncan!_ ” Georgie sounded scandalized, but their host just smiled.

“Yes. I was born here and I’ll die here, working the land—unless, of course, the Theirins need my sword.”

Duncan shook his head, “I won’t leave your child without her parents. Neither would my sister.”

“A noble thought, Your Highness.” He sounded neither convinced, nor resentful. How he managed to do that without sounding snobbish was a skill Duncan would really love to learn.

-

Georgie made another check of Páme’s hooves, trying not to think of how Duncan must look in the wooden bathtub in the kitchen.

He’d been so polite when their host had offered to boil water for each of them to have a fresh bath. At home, he must have a giant gold tub filled by servants, but he’d thanked Mark like . . . like he traveled like this all the time. Like all his friends were . . . common.

“How long have you had royalty mooning over you?” Mark paused his sweeping and leaned on his broom.

“He’ll get over it.”

“I doubt it—and you didn’t answer my question.”

Georgie patted Páme’s nose and closed her stall door. “Years.”

“You stringing him along?”

“No! At least, I don’t think I am . . . He’s royalty, and I’m . . .”

“The most talented surgeon in Thedas.

“Don’t let Ev hear you say that.”

“She can kiss my dimpled black ass.”

“There’s an image her husband wouldn’t like. Plus, I’m . . .”

“What, a mage?”

Georgie nodded, refusing to meet his eye.

_Duncan deserves better._

Mark scoffed. “You’re no more a mage than I am the Imperial Archon. But if you want to confess all your terrible magical sins, I hear your boyfriend’s parents are friends with the Divine.”

Divine Victoria could slit your throat before you knew she was in the room. No thank you.

“You don’t need your ass kissed. You need it kicked. And there’s no way I’m kissing it.”

“Come now, my sexy blond friend, you know the thought crossed your mind once or twice.”

Georgie smiled. “That was years ago, before . . .”

“He sent you flowers?”

“How did you know that?”

“Gran thought it important.”

Georgie didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Separate rooms,” Mark teased, “Or will you two be commandeering my bed tonight?”

“Piss off,” Georgie couldn’t help but smile.

The farmer gave the surgeon’s elbow a reassuring squeeze. “Georgie, tell him. He won’t leave you.”

“He’s not with me. There’s nothing to leave.”


	18. Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

By the end of their short visit, Duncan trusted Mark for more than his superior tea. On the map, he’d shown them the rocky area where Fiona lived, surprisingly near Lothering.

“She’s not destitute, I promise,” Mark said. “It’s more like a cozy stone cottage than a rough cave. Her retirement’s been more comfortable than her public life.”

Then he settled his traveling bedroll near theirs on the floor in front of the kitchen fire, so they could visit more, sharing news of the Bannorn until they all fell asleep.

By dawn, Duncan and Georgie were mounting their horses, saddlebags filled with fresh food and supplies.

“Duncan,” Mark raised a hand in farewell. “Good luck.”

It was the first time anyone had called him by name without him asking them to. It was . . . really nice.

Duncan nodded his thanks and rode after Georgie.

They rode steadily all day, stopping occasionally to water and rest the horses. They made camp at dusk and a hot stew using some of the supplies from Mark.

Georgie made one last check on the horses while Duncan washed their pot and two tin cups.

As he scrubbed, he found himself softly reciting to himself, “One fine day in Ferelden, a mabari puppy named Anne decided she wanted a little girl of her very own . . .”

He couldn’t remember who had first read it to him, but he remembered his mom, dad, and sister’s infinite patience for repeatedly reading it to him. Saying the words now made them feel close, even with all the miles between them.

“ . . . and so the mabari puppy and her girl curled into the blankets and drifted into sweet dreams. And all was well in Ferelden.”

He finished drying the last cup and stowed it away in his bag.

“You tell stories beautifully. How did I not know this about you?” Georgie’s rough voice sent pleasant shivers down Duncan’s spine.

“I didn’t know you were listening.” He pulled out his journal, inkwell, and a quill, and sat across from Georgie, the campfire between them wrapping them in warm flickering light.

Georgie chuckled, “Are you chronicling our adventures?”

“Sketching. You’ll see.” The idea, form, and emotion flowed through him all at once. The fluid movement of the quill calmed his heart.

_This is why I draw._

Instead of Georgie’s easy grin, he’d caught the lighter, knowing smile and storyteller eyes, that little wisp of wind-blown hair, and barely-perceptible dimple. Behind Georgie’s profile, Duncan had drawn a swan, powerful wings outstretched.

“There. Perfect, like you. Come look.”

Georgie scooted over and leaned in with one hand flat on the ground behind Duncan.

_Oh, this is familiar. I don’t think—_

“A swan? Why white, not black?”

“There’s nothing dark about you.”

Georgie snorted.

“Really,” Duncan insisted. “Who told you otherwise?”

Georgie remained silent.

“Why would their opinion be more true than Gran’s? Than mine?”

Georgie looked up from the drawing, eyes smoldering in a way Duncan had not seen before. Was it anger? Determination?

Their noses almost touched. Breath mingled. Their lips almost—

Georgie leaned forward and pressed their lips together.

It was the end of the world. And he didn’t care.

Heat and light. Soft strength. Blessed blindness.

Slow, exploring, Duncan moved his mouth against Georgie’s, slid his hand up to cup his love’s warm cheek.

“I can make you feel good,” Georgie whispered in his ear, reaching for Duncan’s waistband.

“You always do,” he answered in a blissful haze.

Georgie was easing him to his back in the sweet spring grass, sliding his shirt up his trembling belly, easing down his breeches and smalls.

“Can I kiss you again?” Duncan cupped Georgie’s face, amazed by the happy smile he received in return, the gentle weight of Georgie’s hand massaging his quivering belly.

Georgie bent down, lips slightly parted, hovering a moment before suckling Duncan’s lower lip. A wave of warmth cascaded down his chest into his loins.

He eased his tongue into Georgie’s mouth. Georgie’s answering groan of pleasure sent a thrill through his veins.

Duncan’s trembling increased as Georgie steadily massaged downward.

Pleasuring himself had never been this overwhelming. Helpless. Drowning in touch.

Then Georgie gently squeezed his throbbing erection and Duncan threw his head back with a gasp.

Georgie’ soft lips tenderly tasted the skin across Duncan’s chest. The gentle scrape of Georgie’s teeth across his nipple sent delighted shivers down his spine, and he closed his eyes with a needy groan. Amazing how gentle could feel powerful. All of him was sensitive, but there was no pain; only molten desire coupled with floating.

His love’s mouth and hands guiding him up.

He drifted up, up, up, and floated over the edge.

-

_How long have I been in love with you?_

Duncan lay on his side, watching the rise and fall of Georgie’s breathing in the last flickers of their sleepy fire.

_If you were awake, would I be brave enough to tell you?_

The answer to the first question was easy: before they’d ever spoken a word to each other. Even at six, he’d known the difference between love and attraction; his parents loved each other for more than kissing. King Alistair and Queen Margie’s romance was grander than Uncle Varric’s novels. Of course Duncan hadn’t fully understood adult relationships—the responsibilities, fears, sex—until he was a grown man himself, but his love had grown as he had.

_I need to tell you._

They rose at dawn and went about their usual routine to break camp, Duncan rolling up their blankets and Georgie covering the cold embers of the fire with dirt.

“Georgie,” Duncan took a breath, ready to voice his feelings, if not how long he’d held them.

He braced himself for rejection, but didn’t expect a dry interruption before he’d said what he needed to.

“That was inappropriate of me. I shan’t trouble you again, Your Highness.”

He felt the use of title like a slap. A staggering punch, actually. He knew his love had a powerful right hook. Duncan absently rubbed at his left brow, remembering how he’d got his first, last, and only black eye. He’d deserved it, even as a child.

But they weren’t children any more.

_Courage, Duncan._

He had to confess, explain.

_I’m not using you. I love you._

But Georgie was already mounting the dappled bay without looking to see if Duncan would keep up.

-

_When you peak, you cry my name._

It had been a moment of pure weakness to kiss Duncan’s lips, taste his tender skin, feel his taut muscle.

To touch him.

_The Prince._

If illness or tragedy struck, Duncan could be King of Ferelden, or Regent for Sera and Brayden’s children. There was no greater station. Surgeon Georgie, despite a quick quit and clever fingers, had no station at all. Nobles, kings, princes; they dallied with commoners—the King’s bastard origins were proof of that—but you couldn’t expect more.

You certainly didn’t deserve for one so divine to cry your name in ecstasy. Especially if you were sired by a nameless Templar who’d raped a defenseless maiden out collecting herbs.

Or carried any magic.

_There’s nothing dark about you. Who told you otherwise?_

_Children. Adults. Merchants. Mages. Templars._ The list was endless.

_It’s not just my voice that’s broken._

Georgie pushed their pace harder than the previous day, but Pegasus and Páme held their heads high and never seemed to tire, despite only brief stops to water and rest. It was full dark before Georgie let them stop.

Once they’d tended the horses and ate cold rations, both Prince and surgeon fell into their separate bedrolls and slept until dawn.

The next morning, Duncan carefully shaved and washed his face and hair while kneeling by the small, swift stream near their camp. Then they pushed on just as hard as the day before, acutely aware of Mark’s warnings.

_If she got wind that you’re on her trail . . . does she know you’re looking for her?_

If she did, Duncan would probably never get the answers he needed.

The afternoon sun was still high in the sky when they reached the rocky terrain a few hour’s ride from Lothering. Georgie slowed, ready for a long and frustrating search, but saw an encouraging clue at the same moment Duncan saw it.

“I didn’t know there were paths in this region,” Duncan said, pointing to a small, smooth indentation in the ground.

“Good catch. Which way do you think it runs?”

“North, north-west, toward the College.”

“I agree. Lead on, Duncan.”

They dismounted and led their horses along the narrow, rocky trail that was visible only one or two steps ahead.

“Who taught you how to track?” Georgie asked, watching the ground for snakes and loose rock.

“Sometimes I practice for fun with Mom and Uncle Varric’s friend Hawke. But it mostly just came to me, like reading.

"Every line means something. Every sound means something. Every smell means something. I take the details and string them together and they make a story: grasses bent the opposite direction of the wind indicate a person or animal walked through; oblong indents along the riverbank show a person knelt there recently.”

He pointed to the left of the path, “These scuff marks are from wagon wheels, not bear claws. It doesn’t tell me when, why, or by whom, but it supports our assumption that someone’s been hiding up here long enough to require long-term supplies.”

The back of his neck pinkened and he turned around. “Uh, I’m probably blathering on about things you already know.”

 _I practice for fun with Mom._ That would be the Queen of Ferelden. The Herald of Andraste. The Inquisitor. The woman who held the power of the skies in her hand.

 _I am in_ way _over my head._

But Duncan was so sweet, so earnest. So damn smart.

_And hawt. Shut up._

“It’s okay,” Georgie forced a smile. “I like talking with you.”

Duncan’s cheeks flushed red and he turned back up the trail. “What do you think we should do when we find . . . Oh.” He stopped. Pegasus nudged at his shoulder with her nose and he absently raised his hand to rub her snout.

They’d found Fiona’s cave.


	19. Fiona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fixed a couple of paragraphs back in chapter 8. I recommend reading chapter 19 before curiosity has you backtracking. Details are in the endnotes.

“Duncan,” Georgie’s hand was a comfort on his tense shoulder. “Shall I go in first?”

He reached up to squeeze Georgie’s hand. “Thanks, but I think it should be me.”

“Whatever you need.”

Georgie took a step back, they both dropped their reins, and Duncan led the way forward. Cautiously.

The entry had a broad, well-swept dirt floor, well-lit by torches hung on the wall. A short way beyond the cave mouth was a polished wall of wood. In the center stood a simple door with polished bronze handle.

Duncan’s heart pounded in his ears. He ignored it, listening for any scurry of wildlife, or movement of people inside.

He looked over his shoulder. Daggers still in their sheaths, bow strapped cross-body, Georgie nodded for Duncan to go on.

He raised his fist and knocked.

“Entrez,” a soft, feminine Orlesian voice echoed along the stone, muffled by the wood door.

Duncan took a deep breath, turned the handle, and went in.

The elf sprung up from her armchair, tome clattering from her lap to the smooth dirt floor. The fire in the brazier by her side leapt toward the rough ceiling.

Duncan held his open hand out in the sign of parley.

He didn’t need magic. One look and he knew. This was _Alan’s_ mother!

Why had he not noticed the resemblance before? Her skin was more olive than the paintings in cousin Connor’s College, but everything else about her was the same as the paintings, right down to her classic green enchanter’s robes. Two new streaks of white flowed through her obsidian black hair.

Alan may not have her ears, or her fear, but he was definitely Fiona’s son.

_But is she Dad’s mother?_

Duncan stepped clear of the door, moving along the wall to his left, Georgie close at his side. Fiona matched each of their steps in the opposite direction along the other wall, until they were as far apart from her as the middle of the room would allow. She risked a glance at the open door, before looking back to them.

“We came alone,” Duncan said. “We won’t hurt you.”

“You should not have come here!” Fiona shook, her terrified stare locked on Georgie.

“What’s her problem with you?” Duncan asked.

Georgie didn’t answer.

Fiona inched toward the door, but froze when Duncan spun to face her again.

“Why run from Georgie?”

Fiona shook her head vehemently.

“I can grant you courage,” Georgie said softly, like a confession, “whether you want it or no, and she doesn’t want to face her fears, for in doing so, they might become real.”

Fiona nodded, then shook her head again, inching closer to the exit.

“Stop,” Georgie commanded and Fiona froze. Fiona’s trembled stopped and her eyes shuttered blank.

“What are you doing?” Duncan demanded.

Georgie arched a haughty eyebrow. “Your Highness?”

He hated it when Georgie pulled that social class bullshit on him.

“Are you—are you controlling her?”

“No. She has no courage left, no will but to run, so she’s very susceptible to suggestion. I don’t understand how she’s survived this long.”

Duncan sent the Enchanter a curious glance.

“Try giving her a suggestion,” Georgie said.

“I can’t do that. It’s manipulative—” he gave a frustrated sigh. “Oh, for Maker’s sake. Fiona, why don’t you stand up straight? We won’t bite.”

Fiona straightened so fast, she bounced on her toes, her expression still blank.

Duncan gasped.

“See?” Georgie said calmly. “I wonder how long she’s been like this. Redcliffe, Val Royeaux? Before the Conclave? Earlier? Perhaps your grandfather’s bedmate—”

“That’s enough!” Duncan cut in sharply. “Whenever or whatever the origins of her condition, she’s in danger.”

“In danger,” Georgie asked, “or _a_ danger?”

“Connor might know.”

“Involving the Independent College of Magi is a good way to make everyone think your family’s blood tainted with magic.”

“The Theirins are safe,” Dagna walked in, her usual happy smile firmly in place.

_Figures. Mom probably sent her._

“Y-yes!” Fiona scurried over to hide behind Dagna, though the dwarf’s head didn’t reach her shoulder. “They’re safe.”

“Arcanist,” Georgie bowed. “We didn’t hear your approach.”

“Call me Dagna,” she replied cheerily and spread her arms wide. “Duncan, hug?”

“Of course, cousin.” Unwilling further spook Fiona, Duncan got down on one knee and opened his arms for Dagna to come over. “It’s good to see you.”

Dagna squeezed him tight, then returned to Fiona’s side.

“You arrived just in time,” Dagna said. “The former Grand Enchanter is moving to a new residence.”

“Y-yes,” Fiona’s voice strengthened. She held Dagna’s hand and her shudders subsided. “I’ve been looking forward to it. I enjoyed the quiet here, at first, but it gets lonely.”

Duncan hated to push, but this was probably the last chance his family had to talk to Fiona before she disappeared forever.

“Enchanter Fiona, may I ask a few questions before you go?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

So she had recognized him, despite his plain travel clothes and lack of introduction.

His stomach turned a queasy summersault at her use of his title. In private, he couldn’t imagine Gran Trevelyan doing such a thing.

“How many sons do you have?”

“Two,” her lips curved in a bittersweet smile. “Both beautiful. One lost me in infancy; the other never had my full attention—and I left all too soon. I wish they could have known their father, but . . .” Dagna gestured for her to continue. “I’m told he died at sea.

“Who I am, where I’m from, would have been a death sentence for my first child, and was a burden for the other. What they’ve made of themselves is despite me.

“Do you understand, Your Highness, why my firstborn’s secret must die with me?”

So she knew that he knew, and still would not voice the secret aloud.

“Yes,” his lip trembled, but his voice was steady and he did not cry. “Do you have a message for—for either of them?”

“It’s kind of you to offer, but no. I do send my best wishes to your family and household, however.”

He didn’t need any training from his mother to understand that message: _Tell my sons I love them._

“Thank you. May I—may I give you a gift?”

Fiona blinked in surprise. “Of course. I would be honored.”

“It’s in my saddlebag,” Duncan bowed, arms outstretched to invite Fiona and Dagna to precede them outside.

The only animals in sight were Duncan and Georgie’s horses, and the brown landscape showed no evidence of other people.

His fingers trembled as he unbuckled his bag and pulled out his worn copy of _Anne the Brave_.

He turned and held the book out at arm’s length.

No longer afraid, Fiona tilted her head curiously and stepped forward to accept what he offered.

She smoothed her hand down the front cover. “It’s lovely. I enjoy reading.”

“So do I,” he said.

Her answer was a small smile so pretty, it broke his heart.

Eyes filled with unshed tears, Dagna stood beside Fiona, beaming. “Safe travels to you both.”

She put an arm around Fiona’s waist and guided her up the steep path. “Oh, and Duncan,” Dagna paused to look over her shoulder.

“Yes, cousin?”

“Tell your mom thanks, the scones were perfect.”

He laughed. “I will.”

The air around the dwarf and Enchanter shimmered like a summer mirage, and then they were gone.

“Woah,” Georgie said. “I’d like to learn how to do that without stealth powder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 08-10-16 edit: I prefer not to retcon (change previously-posted chapters), but I messed up when describing what Duncan packed, and didn’t realize it until editing later chapters, so I updated a handful of paragraphs in [Chapter 8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6277669/chapters/15584050) (A witch’s kiss, a fleeing prince, originally posted 05-12-16).


	20. Confessions

Hours later, after a mostly silent ride back into the middle of the Bannorn, Duncan poked at their campfire with a stick, mustering his courage.

“You were scared to tell me you’re a mage?” he blurted out. “You don’t have to hide your magic from me. I love you.”

_That’s not how I meant to say that!_

He hunched his shoulders, ready for an angry rebuttal.

But Georgie just sighed and looked into the fire despondently, not acknowledging his last sentence at all.

“It wouldn’t be so bad—if I was a powerful mage. That would be useful.

“Then again, it wouldn’t be so bad if I had no magic whatsoever. That would be safe.

“This tiny bit of power is maddening: lots of risk with little benefit.

“Requiring that I spell cast is like asking me why I don’t have a third eyeball: the ability is not there.” The words were bitter. “I have one, very specific magic ‘talent.’ Not so long ago, that would have locked me up in a tower just as quickly as Grand Enchanter Connor. More likely, I’d have been executed or turned Tranquil for a failed Harrowing.”

Duncan was nearly knocked to his knees by the image that flashed to mind: vibrant Georgie turned lifeless, expression blank, forehead branded with a hateful orange sunburst.

Fuck the Chantry. Surely, Andraste would never have wanted such atrocities.

Georgie sighed in resignation. “A Templar raped my mother, a village lass with no magic knowledge. He wasn’t even Fereldan.

“Ev. Ev can do it all. She cut the arrow out of Cullen’s lung with a scalpel and healed the wound with a touch. If she hadn’t been there, he would have bled to death. You can’t pull a big arrowhead out without tearing. She’s so precise, so perfect.”

His love’s last words were so wistful, Duncan’s heart wept.

“You’re perfect. Just the way you are.”

“I’m not what you want.”

“You are, Georgie. You are _who_ I want. I want _us_ , exactly the way we are. _You_ are all I need.”

“Duncan, you’d have no blood heirs. I can’t . . .”

“I don’t care.”

“The Crown might.” Georgie flinched, perhaps regretting the words, but Duncan was pissed anyway.

“My parents love you.” His nostrils flared. “ _I_ love you.”

He got up and stormed off into the dark, with no idea where he was going or how.

“Duncan, wait!” Georgie ran after him, stopping abruptly when Duncan spun around.

“What, I’m not skilled enough for you? I’m not sm—knowledgeable enough? I lack—”

“Duncan!” Georgie grabbed him by the arms, eyes wide with frustration. “You’re the best man in Thedas! You . . .”

Duncan finally saw what he’d wanted as they stood there together, both trembling, panting heavily with riled-up emotion: the fear, the uncertainty, the joy, the lust, the love. He recognized it all in Georgie because it was everything that spun inside himself.

“I what?” Duncan asked gently.

“You’ve no deficit,” the choked whisper was almost a sob. “None.”

Duncan’s happy heart leapt into his throat, then smashed to the ground as the grip on his arms eased and Georgie turned away.

“Bighted hell with this,” he growled, and spun Georgie back into his arms in a crushing kiss.

It was so different from the soft, sweet surrender he’d given the other night.

He’d never grabbed anyone in his life. He’d let a few merchants’ daughters—and one son—steal a kiss behind their market stalls, but he’d never _held_ anyone like this. He might have never cursed aloud either, if he could recall, which he couldn’t.

This moment was his whole thought, his whole being, all he could feel. He might never have the capacity to feel anything else ever again.

His lips demanded, took. Georgie’s response was an onslaught of greedy tongue and teeth that made Duncan groan and open his mouth for more.

After several breathless moments, he came up for air and rested their foreheads together.

“No one sees how strong you are,” Georgie said, running a hot index finger along Duncan’s eyebrow to make him shiver. “It drives me mad.”

The next kiss was sweeter, deeper, richer.

“Take me to bed?” Duncan asked.

With a smile sweet as the Maker’s mercy, Georgie took his hand and led him back to their bedrolls by the fire.

-

It felt so right to have Georgie nestled in his arms in the deepest part of night.

“Your hair is the color of straw.” Duncan loved running his hands through it.

Georgie snorted, “That’s an ugly image.”

“No,” Duncan bent down to whisper another kiss over Georgie’s lips. “You’re gorgeous.”

Sweetness became desperation. Need became fire. Words became moans, and it was a long time before they were sated enough to speak coherent words again.

-

They lay nude, nestled in their shared bedroll, Duncan on his side with Georgie’s warm back pressed to his front.

_This is how every night of our lives should be._

Georgie lifted Duncan’s hand and kissed the thin pink scar on his index finger. “You damaged yourself just to spend a few minutes with me.”

“No, I got cut because I wasn’t careful with a letter opener. I came to you for help afterward.”

Georgie snuggled tighter in his arms and his heart constricted.

“Georgie?”

“Hmm?”

“When we return home, I’d like to make a home together, just the two of us, on our own.”

“We,” Georgie’s voice trembled, “We can’t.”

“Why?” he asked gently. “Because my sister’s going to be Queen? Because people will talk?”

Georgie remained mute.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes,” it was a whisper. “Duncan, I’m scared.”

“Then let me be your courage.”

“Huh, _I_ make _you_ feel brave. That’s not love.”

“Coeur means heart. Courage comes from that. You give it to others.” Duncan placed a kiss along Georgie’s jaw. “I freely give mine to you.

“Your gift didn’t make me love you. How you live your life made me love you. How you speak to me, and help people; how you _give_ so much to everyone _but_ me because you don’t want to lead me astray. You don’t want me hurt. You want what’s best for me, even at the cost of your own happiness, because you love me. I love you because you love me.”

Georgie frowned, “But you loved me first.”

“As a child. I’m a man now, and I love you as a man should: completely."

The tragic alternative hit him.

“Do you not want to be with me? Am I,” he choked around the words, “coercing you to be here? Did you feel you couldn’t say no to this trip with me? Did I make you . . .” His voice became small, sad. “Am I the bully now?

“Do you feel trapped? What do you feel, Georgie? I’m sorry I never asked.”

“For years I felt resignation. We couldn’t be together, no matter how much—” Georgie took a breath. “Then, anger; I was angry I couldn’t return all the loving gestures you showed me . . .”

Silent for a full minute, Duncan watched Georgie watch their entwined fingers.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now? Now I don’t care what any Bann thinks.”

Georgie reached up to play with the gold necklace around Duncan’s neck, look at the ring on the chain.

“What’s this?”

“A birthday present from my grandparents.”

“It’s the Trevelyan crest. People have been murdered for less.”

“Hadn’t we decided that we don’t care what any Bann thinks?”

“Yes, luv,” Georgie laughed and kissed him. “That’s what we’ve decided.”


	21. Wall of ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

Every cell in Janelle’s body hummed contentedly from their latest lovemaking. Hot. Sweet. Exciting. All at the same time. Despite their worries for Duncan, Alan had dreamed well and deeply each night since Stella’s cure, and he was again the powerful man she remembered from all those years ago—perhaps even more powerful. And certainly amorous. His stamina was, well . . . she smiled to herself.

She felt his warm gaze on her bare skin as she sat naked at the mirrored vanity in his bedchamber, brushing her hair. She set down his pearl-handled brush and quickly worked her hair into a braid for sleeping.

“Don’t go,” he said, and she looked up to meet his eye in the mirror. Beautifully nude, all hints of yellow and purple gone from his olive skin, he lay on his side, propped up on an elbow to watch her. “When the time comes, send the books back with someone else.”

She saw heated appreciation in his gaze, male hunger for a woman’s body. No more. Not wonder, or mystery, or . . .

She picked up a white satin ribbon to tie the end of her braid.

“You wish me to leave the College?” She surprised herself with her own conversational tone and steady hands. Her nerves shook uncontrollably and her heart was screaming out giant, wracking sobs.

He lusted for her, but didn’t love her. She’d always known this, so why did it hurt now?

“I . . . suppose not,” he said. Her quivering heart froze. “They’d crumble to dust without you.”

She harrumphed a laugh and forced a close-lipped smile, looking up to the mirror again when she heard him slide across the sheets and rise. He padded barefoot across the cool stone floor to stand behind her, placing his warm hands on her shoulders. An invisible, comforting fire ran down her arms, but it couldn’t touch the ice that grew inside her chest, trapping her heart behind an impenetrable wall of infinite, immobile blue.

He hummed in appreciation, sliding his hands down to cup her elbows and back up to her shoulders, the heated touch making her shiver in hot anticipation, despite the new, aching void deep within.

From behind, he slid his right hand between her breasts as he moved his left hand around the back of her neck and tilted her chin upward. He lowered his lips to claim hers as he ran his thumb over her left nipple, quickly bringing it to peak. Alan palmed her breast, massaged it, then squeezed her nipple between the sides of his thumb and index finger with a steadily growing pressure that finally made her gasp, allowing entrance for his strong and patient tongue. He didn’t let go.

Desire shot as molten lava from her captured nipple down into her lower abdomen, a gush of fresh desire flooding between her legs. She reached up to grip his sculpted arms while he retained his firm hold on her chin and breast. His tongue delved deep, his powerful lips conquering, claiming while her neck arched up and her breast throbbed just inside the pleasure side of pain, her hips and thighs trembling as he held the rest of her seated form pinned to his heated, solid chest, the thin spindles of the wood chair an erotic hardness pinched between them, the tasseled end of her soft braid tickling the flesh of her highly-sensitized back as he breathed against her.

He released her breast and she cried out into his mouth, immediately wishing he’d stroke her there again. He angled his head closer without removing his tongue or releasing her chin, and ran his right hand down the center of her trembling abdomen. His torturously slow touch leapt ahead like lightning as he plunged two fingers inside her, causing her hips to jerk forward, her heady exclamation swallowed up by his own mouth.

His tongue’s rhythm remained steady and patient while his pumping fingers raced, building hot pressure within her. Her hands scrambled along his arms, up to grip the back of his neck. Fingers still pounding within her clenched muscles, he worked his thumb around her clitoris in fast, teasing circles that didn’t move in to where she desperately ached for him to touch. She whimpered and moaned into his mouth, unable to form coherent words.

Shock coursed through her when his thumb suddenly swept in on her clit, working it as fast as his other fingers thrust, catapulting her over the edge of release. He swallowed her silent scream of ecstasy and moved his mouth to pull her bottom lip between both of his. Her ragged breaths bathed his face while her pulse beat erratically in the lip he sucked. His clever fingers milked out her waves of pleasure until she collapsed back against his shoulder and her arms fell limply to her sides.

The afterglow was glorious.

But glory wasn’t enough.

-

Even though his cock was hard as a rock and ready for more, a part of Alan’s mind knew something was off. He couldn’t figure out what it was. He didn’t want to ruin the moment for Janelle, so he hummed with approval as he slowly pulled at her lower lip and finally let it slip from between his, leaving his stilled fingers within her gorgeous, wet folds.

He slid his left hand down her shoulder and wrapped himself around her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. Understanding ran him over like a druffalo.

_Distant._

Sweet, giving, vibrant, Janelle—a holy light to all she touched—was disconnected from what they’d just experienced together. The first time they’d made love this evening, just an hour ago, he’d felt her joy. What had changed? Her organic life force beat as strong as ever with no change, but he worried what Stella would find if he asked her to listen to Janelle’s bloodsong.

Janelle was more separate from him now than all those years they’d exchanged nothing but professional correspondence.

Panic raced through him and he tightened his arm around her.

“How do you feel?” he breathed against her cheek.

“Glorious,” she whispered back with a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Before his inner panic could birth hysteria, he pulled his hand from between her thighs and scooped her up, sending the chair toppling over.

“Alan!” she laughed a real laugh and wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from falling. He could feel their hearts pounding together as he strode for the bed and laid her out gently.

He would do anything, _anything_ , to erase the distance he’d somehow triggered this evening.

He placed tender kisses to her jaw, her pulse point, her collar bone. She moaned his name like a sad prayer he wanted to answer, to wash away with joy.

Her left breast was still warm, soft, and reddened from his earlier ministrations, but her right nipple was pert in the cool air of the fortress. He lay on his side, left arm beneath her, right leg thrown over her thigh, his throbbing erection twitching against her side, as he eased the end of her braid across her chest. He massaged the white silk ribbon gently across her beaded nipple and she sighed out his name again.

“Alan, Alan, Alan,” she breathed a soft mantra. It was an empty well he was desperate to fill with life-giving water, even if he had to die of thirst himself.

She ran her hands into his hair and spread her legs wide. He eased on top of her and she bent her knees high, reaching down with a hand to guide his penis into her vagina.

Their moans and sighs were similar to every time they’d been together. Yet he could _feel_ that it was different for her now. He was too scared to ask why.

They moved their hips in perfect tandem. He placed a tender kiss to her throat as her third orgasm of the evening washed over them both, pulling his own release right after her. He cried out her name as he came and rested his weight on her, spent.

His body trembled—from confusion as much as the draft across his sweaty skin.

Alan pulled out—something broke within him when he did, birthing the fear that maybe he’d never be with her again—and rolled to his side. Janelle scooted her back against his chest, so they could sleep spooned as they always did.

 _Always?_ They’d been intimate a few weeks, and she would return to the College without him.

Neither of them tried their usual pillow talk. They lay there in dark silence for at least an hour before he felt Janelle’s breathing ease into sleep.

His inner turmoil hadn’t eased. Panic continued to run in endless circles in his chest and mind.

_Have I lost her before she’s left?_

For the first time in a fortnight, Alan didn’t sleep at all.

-

In her dreams, Janelle walked the empty College library. Bright, clean sunlight shone through the windows without so much as a single speck of dust dancing in the air. That detail alone let her know she was in the Fade. The library was vacant, silent, devoid of even her own breathing. The College was never silent, at any time of night or day, and, unless you were in the privy, you were unlikely to ever be alone in a room.

Dread clutched her chest. Where was everyone?

_This is a dream. When I return, they will be there._

She guided her consciousness upward until she opened her eyes in Alan’s room, still cradled in his arms with a tension that let her know he was awake.

She eased from his grasp, keeping her eyes averted while she pulled her robes over her head and picked up her boots to carry across the hall.

“Stay with me,” Alan’s tone wasn’t as firm as it had been last night. _Don’t go_ , he’d said, then changed his mind.

“I can’t,” her answer was devoid of passion. She didn’t even feel sad.

Janelle returned to her room, silently closing the door.

She commenced her daily research routine—the only change was she indexed the Queen’s personal library instead of working in her study with Alan; they’d finished translating the elven scrolls yesterday—prepared potions with Stella in the afternoon, and made her obligatory appearance at the King’s dinner table.

If she’d made any new memories today, or had any important conversations, she couldn’t recall them as she prepared for bed, donning her green dressing gown over her nightdress.

She suddenly found herself sitting in the armchair beside the fire, unsure of how much time had passed. What had roused her from her stupor?

Someone watched her.

She looked up from the fire to see two-year-old Princess Culver standing just inside the closed door of the bedchamber, watching her with eyes wide as a halla’s. The child wore a white nightdress that brushed the tops of her feet.

“Your Royal Highness,” Janelle rose from her chair and curtsied. “Are you looking for your maid?”

The child shook her head and gestured toward Janelle’s chair. “Please, sit.” The pitch of her voice was young, but the tone and words queenly, like her mother and grandmother.

Janelle sat.

Culver crawled up into her lap and cuddled close. The Enchanter instinctively wrapped her arms around the small girl, and laid her cheek to the top of her dark, satiny curls.

“Do you miss your uncle?” Janelle asked.

“Yes, but I know he will return to me.”

They stared into the cheerful fire for a while longer.

“You’re not alone.”

Culver broke the silence, and the ice around Janelle’s heart finally vanished.

Then she cried.

Two hours before dawn, Janelle woke alone in the armchair, her face blotchy and sore from salty tears. The fire was down to smoldering embers. Perhaps the Princess had been a dream.

_You’re not alone._

The people she’d been with her whole life waited for her at home. An entire College bustling with mages, dwarves, and their friends and family. Connor and Dagna. She’d made her delivery, she’d had a nice visit with Stella, and it was time to go.

Not waiting for a maid, she stoked the fire back to life, adding fuel to light the room enough for her to dress and pack her two small satchels.

When she retrieved her combs from beside the porcelain wash basin, she found a single fresh, white daisy on the table. The Princess had been there after all.

“Thank you, Culver.” Heart lighter than it had been since she’d left home, Janelle smiled and pressed the flower between the pages of her journal and tucked it into one of her bags. Bags in hand, she left her rooms without a backward glance.

On her way down the stairs, she encountered the King’s Steward. “Good morning, Enchanter Janelle. May I assist you?” He motioned a footman forward.

“Good morning, Hill. Thank you,” she let the footman take her luggage. “If a messenger could be sent to the barracks, please. I’d like to let Niles know I’m ready.”

“At once, Enchanter Janelle.” He nodded to another footman, who bowed and bustled out the front door. “Shall I have tea brought to the breakfast room while the horses are readied?”

“Thank you. Breakfast would be lovely.”

Twenty minutes later, Niles helped her mount one of the spare riding horses Connor kept at his cousin’s fortress, a gentle Fereldan Forder with a white blaze on her brown face. Jasper and Miller already sat in their saddles, ready to go.

“But, don’t you two need to stay to help whomever does the return delivery?” Janelle asked. She was leaving the College cart and pair of workhorses for Dagna’s research materials to be returned at a later date.

“We’re along to guard you, mum, not the books,” Niles said, mounting his own horse. “Arcanist’s orders.”

The other men nodded, expressions serious.

The sun peeked over the fortress walls. Happy warmth blossomed in Janelle’s chest as she thought of the dwarf issuing strict orders to these loyal human soldiers who towered over her.

“Let’s go home.”


	22. Royal bastard

Janelle filled Alan’s dreams.

She sat laughing in the gardens as they watched the black-and-white kitchen cat chase butterflies. He caught a whiff of elfroot while he watched her hand empty potion bottles to Stella for filling. She sat at his desk in nothing but his red dressing gown as she jotted down notes in elven. She smiled when he passed her the breadbasket and their fingers touched. Candlelight flickered across her exquisite face as she rode him hard, his hands on her breasts making them both moan with pleasure.

He stood beside a red-headed priest, watching the closed front door of a two-room cottage while spring butterflies and the scent of mixed wildflowers danced around his shoulders. The door opened and Janelle stepped out, brilliant in a white lace dress—

His bedroom door slammed open with a bang. He’d left it unlocked last night, just in case Janelle—

“What the actual fuck?!” Alistair demanded, striding in.

“Alistair?” Alan croaked, the image of his most recent dream overlaying the sight of the man in his room, like when you stare at a candle flame for a while and then look away, still seeing the shape until your eyes adjust.

Alistair stood scowling at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips. Alan was suddenly glad the King wasn’t wearing his sword and shield.

Alan sat up, the blankets cascading down his bare chest to pool in his lap. The bright sun around the edges of the curtain indicated it was late morning, hours later than he usually rose.

“What can I do for you, Your Majesty?”

Alistair snorted. “More like, what have you done? Janelle left. At dawn.”

“Left?” Alan didn’t understand.

“Yes, you daft, mental tit, left, as in packed her own two meager bags, mounted a horse, and rode out with all three of her guards. Left word with my Steward that another agent from the College would handle the return delivery of your _reference materials_ ”—he spat the words like poison—“at a later date.”

Shock wasn’t lightning. It was numbness. Dumbness. Alan sat with rumpled hair and wide eyes, his mouth open like a codfish, trying to understand—

Stella stormed in behind Alistair, her fair cheeks pink with rage. “What. The. Bloody. Fucking. Blighted. Hell. Did you do?”

Both men flinched and the King turned sideways, taking a step back from the enraged Enchanter. Fire flickered across her fingertips and she snorted out a puff of green Fade magic like a dragon puffs steam.

“But, Dad, we want to see—” Alan hadn’t noticed Theo and Curran hot on Stella’s heels.

“Absolutely not,” Rollie dragged his son and Alistair’s grandson out of the room by their shirt collars and down the hall, their footsteps disappearing down the stairs as another set stomped toward the room.

Princess Sera strode in wearing her sword and shield. She took position on Stella’s right, silent and glaring.

Hot silence bubbled in the room.

A movement at the door caught Alan’s attention. Margie stood there in breeches and a long-sleeved linen shirt, hands bare. She looked at him with a quiet compassion that made him swallow back tears.

“Let Alan dress,” she said gently. “Cullen and Healer Evelyn just arrived. I’ve asked Hill to show them to my parlor.”

The fire in Stella’s hands flickered and went out. Her shoulders slumped and she looked to the floor in defeat. With a sigh, the Princess put her arms around her and guided her out of the room.

Scowl gone, hands loose at his sides, Alistair looked at his wife for a moment before turning back to say, “I’m sorry, Alan.”

The King and Queen left, softly closing the door behind them.

It was more surreal than his dreams. Alan didn’t know what to do, yet he found himself getting out of bed, putting on his smalls and clean enchanter’s robes, combing his hair, donning his boots.

When he poured water from the pitcher into the shallow basin to wash his face, he realized his cheeks were already wet: he cried silent tears for Janelle. She was gone and he could not follow.

_Later. I can cry later. Alistair and Margie need me now._

He washed his face, blew his nose, and composed himself. He left the quiet privacy of his rooms and made his way to the Queen’s parlor, where a footman stood at attention outside the door.

The footman opened the door and announced him to the room, “Enchanter Allan.”

Queen Margaret and Healer Evelyn sat side by side on a settee, conversing with Stella and Princess Sera, who sat in sleek armchairs across from the settee. Alistair stood behind his wife. Commander Rutherford leaned back on a polished teak buffet table along the right-hand wall, watching Ev like she held all the answers to life’s mysteries. The King’s Steward stood at attention just inside the door.

“Thank you, Marvin,” the Steward said, “that will be all.”

The footman bowed and departed.

“Alan,” Ev greeted him with a smile and rose to take his hands and kiss each of his cheeks with the customary Orlesian greeting, even though she was completely Fereldan, as was her husband.

Alistair moved to sit at his wife’s left, leaving Ev’s seat empty.

“Healer Evelyn,” Alan returned the air-kisses. “Been to Val Royeaux lately?”

“We’ve been stationed in Emprise du Lion,” the Commander said from his perch against the buffet, “A joint effort with Celene’s troops to build weather-appropriate, permanent shelters for the displaced. Ev’s quite taken by the settlement and the people there.” Arms crossed with confidence, his smile made it clear that he was a lounging lion and Alan was a mouse he could crush with a single swipe of his paw.

Alan nodded in acknowledgement and released Ev’s hands.

“Healer Evelyn,” Margie patted the settee, inviting her to sit again at her side. “I’ve a personal favor to ask.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Ev sat without hesitation, despite sharing a seat with both the Queen and King of Ferelden. “You can count on me for anything.”

“You understand the sensitive nature of the succession,” Margie said.

Alan didn’t think his shoulders could get any tighter.

“Of course,” Ev said.

“And the role the Bannorn’s ideals play in the Landsmeet.”

Ev eyed Alistair appraisingly. “Yes, they decide who is worthy to rule.”

The Commander frowned at that, though his wife appeared at ease.

“And who is well enough,” Margie continued. “We feel we’re in good health, but since you’re here and we value your expertise, perhaps you would be willing to read our life force?”

“I’d be honored.”

Turning in her seat, Ev took Margie’s offered hands in her own. After a moment of silence, she smiled, “You’re healthier than when I met you.”

Since she made no mention of the disappearance of the Mark, Alan assumed Margie had talked to Ev about it before his arrival.

Ev moved to sit on the coffee table in front of where Alistair sat, gently setting her hands in his open palms. “You’re just as healthy as when I left, Your Majesty. Though,” she sent Alan a look over her shoulder, “my replacement ignored my suggestions and instituted a rather unorthodox treatment plan.”

“I’m no healer,” Alan smiled, not the least bit sorry.

“No, you’re not,” Janelle stood with an amused sigh.

Margie said, “Healer Evelyn, Alan needed the marketplace healer recently. Perhaps you could check on him, too?”

_You clever rogue._

Alan sent Margie an incredulous glance and she just smiled. Alistair held her hand, grinning proudly.

Ev approached, holding out her hands. “If I may?”

“Of course.”

It was a gesture they’d shared dozens of times before. A moment later, she dropped his hands.

“You’re clean of all infection. It was James, right? He leaves a distinct magic signature. I doubt you’ll catch so much as a cold in the next six months.”

She turned to address Margie. “Also, I’ve uncovered some happy news.”

Face blank, Alistair gripped Margie’s hand tighter. Margie nodded for Ev to continue.

“King Alistair and Enchanter Alan both carry Theirin blood. They share the same father.”

_What?_

Alistair buried his face in his wife’s shoulder, laughing as tears streamed down his cheeks. Sera looked at Alan as if he’d grown a second head. Stella wrapped a supportive arm around Sera’s shoulders. The Commander scowled, face red. The Steward stood at stoic attention by the door.

And Margie’s lips curved in the hint of a knowing smile.

_What?_

“And what of my mother?” Alistair asked, wiping away and amused tear.

“A Landsmeet declared you King many years ago, knowing of your commoner mother. She is dead.”

_What?_

“I’m the King’s bastard?!” Alan finally found his voice.

“ _You’re a Royal Bastard_ ,” Alistair bent double with laughter, tears of mirth streaming down his face. His wife handed him a fresh handkerchief.

“Certainly, Maric is your father,” Ev said. “As next of kin, I assume your heartbeat is too loud for you to discern more?”

Alan nodded.

“Besides,” Ev continued, “didn’t you meet your sister and her children in Denerim during the Blight, Your Majesty?”

“I . . . Yes, I did.”

“Then history is correct: Your father has given you a brother—a faithful brother who is an asset to the throne, not a threat to your house.”

Cullen’s scowl disappeared. He told the Steward, “That brilliant woman is my wife.”

Head reeling with the implications, Alan was completely unprepared for the whirlwind that came next.

The door flew open and Duncan strode in, a giggling Carver on his hip. He still wore his traveling cloak and muddy boots. The Prince’s cheeks were pink from the sun, his jaw scruffy with a few days of blond stubble.

“Good morning, everyone!” he boomed out happily and strode over to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. “Dagna says thank you, and the scones were perfect.

“Sera, did you see Sam and his wife in the courtyard? I had no idea the Inquisition was visiting!”

Everyone around Alan started talking excitedly at once. Their voices faded into a vague buzzing in the back of his skull.

They all seemed so . . . whole.

Had Janelle waited another few hours, she could have seen this.

An emptiness grew in his chest.

_If only I hadn’t been such an ass._

He should have asked her what was troubling her, not dragged her off to bed.

He looked around the room, lost.

Margie rose from the settee, kissed Culver—the young Princess refused to relent her death grip on her uncle—and joined Alan in his quiet corner by the door.

“Alan, how about we visit Connor?”

Relief washed over him. Having the Queen for a sister-in-law was going to be good.


	23. Promises

Duncan’s lips tasted like a purple wine Georgie could drink all day.

They shared one last desperate kiss behind Gorim’s empty stall in the bustling Denerim marketplace. Duncan didn’t want to return to the fortress, but he had to tell his family about what they’d found.

His soft lips held the strength of warrior kings. Made all kinds of bold promises, too.

“I’ll come to your house tonight.”

Sneak out again? The Queen would probably lock him up as soon as he got home this afternoon.

“No, your family has been through enough.”

“ _You’re_ my family, too. I’ll not hide.”

Georgie’s innards melted like a gooey chocolate chip. “Tomorrow. I’ll go home for lunch. Meet me then and we can make love in the middle of the day.”

Duncan stole another kiss, “Hmm, my favorite.”

Georgie laughed and pushed him away playfully, “Every time is your favorite, Duncan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Duncan paused, hand braced on the side of Gorim’s weapon stall, face serious.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Another Theirin grin coupled with those deep green Trevelyan eyes, and he slipped around the corner, blending in with the crowd.

Georgie sighed and leaned back against the stall, committing every touch, every breath, every sweet moment to memory. And tomorrow—

“That went well.”

“Maferath’s balls, Gorim!” Georgie jumped up straight, heart pounding. “You frightened the shit out of me. I thought you were at home.”

“Got back just in time for your little exhibition. Didn’t want to interrupt.” The dwarf opened his arms and Georgie knelt down for a tight hug. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.”

“So, you kids got yourselves figured out?”

“Yeah, I think we do.”

-

Duncan was reading an herbalism tome when his eight-year-old nephew stormed into his study.

“You left!” Curran’s face was flushed. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “Duncan, do you realize what that did to Culver—to _me_?”

Duncan set down his book and approached Curran with his arms outstretched.

Curran brushed him off angrily. “Do you?!”

 _So much like Sera._ _Like Dad._

Duncan suppressed an amused smile. The kid would not find it funny.

“Curran, I’m sorry it hurt, but I’m not sorry I went. I didn’t disappear; I left a note with Gran.”

“A note,” Curran scoffed. “I wanted to go with you! If I’d been older, would you have taken me—or snuck out anyway?”

“Your place is here, Curran. You’re to be King. I’m just a spare.”

“A _spare?_ Is that how you think of Culver, that she’s a _spare?_ ”

“No!”

Curran huffed out a breath, crossed his arms, and averted his gaze to stare into the cold, empty fireplace.

“Curran,” Duncan said gently, “I love you. I was trying to save you, not cause you pain.”

The boy’s stiff shoulders loosened, but he wouldn’t look at him.

“Curran?”

Voice small, Curran choked out, “I don’t want to be King.”

“Neither did Dad.”

“Really?” Curran looked to him and Duncan smiled.

“Really, but he changed his mind. He knew his people— _our_ people—needed him. That Ferelden needed him. And he seems to like the job now, don’t you think?”

Curran wrinkled his nose. “That’s because Gran kisses him so much.”

Duncan chuckled. “He was King for a long time before they met, and he tells good stories about that time.”

Curran nodded and let his arms fall to his sides.

“But you—you’re going to leave again. Go off with the surgeon.”

Duncan opened his arms and this time Curran accepted his hug.

“No matter how far, I promise I’ll come to you whenever you want. I’ll return to you.”


	24. Radiant

Janelle sat in Dagna’s office, cataloging a box of new acquisitions while Dagna wrote letters. The day was sunny. A gentle breeze passed through the open window and out through the open office door into the empty hallway.

“This volume of pre-blight Genitivi is in poor shape,” Janelle held up the tome, “but it’s legible and I think it would circulate if we had it re-bound.”

Dagna set down her quill and came around the desk to gently page through the book. “I agree.” She grinned. “I’ve never seen a copy with these illustrations before! I’ll take it down to Maxwell and see what he can do.” Like a shot, the dwarf was out the door.

Janelle smiled and shook her head. When it came to new discoveries, Dagna didn’t delegate or wait, she jumped straight in.

Janelle worked in peace, birdsong through the open window her only company as she examined book spines, checked for soiled pages, and made notes for the catalog.

“You’re marvelous, you know that?” The accent was Fereldan, but the voice as smooth as an Orlesian wine. That voice flowed over her skin in memories and dreams. As did the speaker’s lips. His tongue and hands. She looked up to find Alan in the doorway. A content smile gently bent his lips as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe to watch her. “Radiant.”

She could say the same for him, if she could make her voice work. The sun glinted off his obsidian hair with that flash of silver from his right temple. His olive skin was rich, like the light he stood in had caressed it into perfection. And his eyes . . .

If she’d been able to draw breath, she would have gasped. He looked at her with a tender knowing she’d never seen before. All for her. She almost dared hope—a tremor of concern crept in. Had he abandoned Alistair?

“Alan, how fares King Alistair?”

“As usual, he’s bloody annoying,” Alan’s cheerful tone belied his rough words. “But I can’t get rid of him now that Ev confirmed he and I have the same father. I left him downstairs, snickering with Connor in a private conversation. Probably plotting to put cottage cheese in the seat cushions or some other such thing. I’ve never seen Connor laugh like that—except with Dagna.”

He stepped into the office, his gaze holding her in place. “Dagna’s showing the Queen her newest tools, while grilling her for details about the Prince’s adventures with his new lover—Duncan and Georgie made it home safely before we left, by the by—” Alan had made his was to her side and she had to look up from where she sat to keep eye contact. Her heart thundered in her ears. “—and digging for all the sordid details about how foolish I’ve been not to tell you I love you yet.”

Her heart leapt for joy, but her brain had trouble making her lips convey the message to him. “I—you . . .”

He knelt before her, gently taking her hands in his and placing a soft kiss inside her palm. “I love you, Janelle.”

She cupped his cheek. “Alan, I love you, too.”

“Would you like to share a life with me in Denerim?” He slid an arm around her waist, leaned closer, his moist breath deliciously warm on her face as he looked up at her with wonder.

“Yes,” she breathed out.

“Janelle,” he whispered a kiss just below her ear, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

A joyous whoop from the hallway made her jump in her seat and cling to Alan where he knelt at her feet.

“She said yes!” King Alistair shouted.

Cheers, clapping, and pounding feet echoed throughout the stone halls. The whole College must have been skulking in the stairwells, waiting for the news.

Janelle laughed and pressed a kiss to Alan’s lips. Gone was the awkwardness from dinner at the fortress a few weeks ago, when Alistair had grinned at her and his grandson’s friend had doubted Alan would sleep with anyone. She had a feeling being the King’s sister-in-law would be full of such mischievous conversations, and she was looking forward to them all—with Alan at her side.


	25. Epilogue

Ensconced alone in his mother’s study, Theo re-read his latest letter from the Arcanist of the Independent College of Magi.

_Parental permission required._

That wouldn’t be difficult. Dad would sign off on it right away—if he could convince Mum.

“Are you going?” a familiar, sweet, young voice asked from behind him.

Theo spun around to find Curran’s little sister, wide eyes shining like white-and-blue opals in the sun. She’d recently turned three, the same day Theo had celebrated his tenth birthday.

“Culver, how did you get in here?” He hadn’t heard the door open or close.

“I walked,” she looked at him like he was the simple one.

“So, are you going to go live with cousin Connor?”

He scowled. “Have you been spying on me?”

“Pfft, as if I needed to: You skulk around hiding letters from Dagna’s messengers. It’s the most likely reason—and no, I haven’t tattled to anyone.”

She asked sweetly, “Who would believe a baby anyway?”

“You’re no baby, and I’m sorry I ever mistook you for one.”

She’d scorched off his eyebrows and he’d had to lie to his mother about how he’d done it to himself. The indignity of it hurt as much as the burn.

“Apology accepted,” she said brightly.

“Be careful, Theo. When my mother is Queen, she will need you.”

The little imp smiled, “And I’d like to see you again someday.”

He blinked and she was gone.

Damn it! He’d been tying that trick for two years and never gotten it to work.

Theo wondered if Curran had any idea what his sister was capable of.

“I’m sure as blighted hell not going to be the one to tell him.”

-

Elven legends tome in hand, Duncan relaxed in an armchair by the fire in the little row house he and Georgie shared just down the lane from the clinic. He selected a fresh cheese square from the box his father had sent home with him and popped it into his mouth, enjoying the sharp scent and smooth texture.

The Prince of Ferelden settled back in his chair to wait in the warm semi-darkness. His love would be home as soon as clinic business was done for the day.

Georgie breezed in an hour later.

“Three deliveries this afternoon, one forester who gouged a leg with an ax—had to call in a healer to consult on that one—and, while elbow-deep in bloody linens, Maeve proposed to her woman and she said yes, so, come spring, we’ll—”

“Is that what you want?”

“What?”

“Would you like to marry me?”

He hadn’t thought about it before, but he’d do it. He’d scale Mount Ambrosia barefoot if it made Georgie happy.

“Duncan,” Georgie laughed, “No priest in her right mind would bind us.”

“Aunt Leliana would, if I asked,” he offered in all seriousness. “Divine Victoria can be very kind.”

“We don’t have to run off to Val Royeaux,” Georgie took his hand and climbed into his lap, linking their fingers together. “You’re with me. _You_ are all I need. I’m happy as we are.”

A wave of joy washed through his very being.

“You’re all I need, too,” Duncan leaned in with the gentlest of kisses. “My love.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to add Fiona and Alan! And Janelle and Georgie! Here are pictures of the family tree [before](https://67.media.tumblr.com/fe160fc8ff3d4489d6c80f442f2ac510/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o1_r1_1280.jpg), [during](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c4238afd70832ea8df475da34ad7b946/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o2_r1_1280.jpg), and [after](https://68.media.tumblr.com/766da3bc587ed167f5fb1bb53fcc7346/tumblr_od5lgdmAB01vvbdh6o3_r1_1280.jpg) the events of this story.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Check out my [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/dafan7711/courage-my-heart/) for this story.
> 
> Up next: Morrigan's Story, a short story about Lady Morrigan's face-off with Fen'Harel!
> 
> I'm experimenting with a work-in-progress called Warrior Dove, which may turn into a longer story about powerful adventurers Princess Culver and Theo, friends who take care of problems for Queen Sera. (Alistair and Margie are alive and happily retired!) And some stories outside the Dragon Age universe.
> 
> Thank you to all the guests and registered users for your comments and kudos!
> 
> You can also reach me via: the e-mail listed in [my AO3 profile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/profile) | [Tumblr asks](http://dafan7711.tumblr.com/ask) (anonymous available) | [Tumblr messaging](https://www.tumblr.com/docs/en/social).


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